


the potential of you and me

by andreaphobia



Category: Free!
Genre: Band Fic, Bassist Makoto, Childhood Friends, Denial, Desire, Domesticity, Guitarist Haruka, M/M, Music, Mutual Pining, Neighbors, Slow Burn, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Words left unsaid, flirting without knowing it, needing is one thing and getting's another, rival bands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-17 09:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16092935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andreaphobia/pseuds/andreaphobia
Summary: The one where Haruka loves music like he loves the water, and Nagisa makes them start a band.





	1. just we two

 

 

 

> “The only truth is music.”  
>  \- Jack Kerouac 

 

 

“Play the one about the cats again,” Makoto says.

Haruka looks up from the fretboard of his guitar. Makoto is seated cross-legged on the floor with his back to the garage door, which has been left half-open, looking out onto the street. Late-afternoon sunlight pours through the gap, lighting the tips of Makoto’s hair to glow like a strange, sandy-brown halo around his head.

He flashes Haruka the hint of a smile, then tips his head down to rest his cheek on a knee.

“You always want to hear that one,” Haruka points out.

“Because it’s my favorite.”

Haruka’s had a lot of practice, so he hears what lies unspoken behind those words: _Because_ you’re _my favorite_.

Slowly, he exhales. The ‘cat song’ was a little ditty he’d written as a kid; one of the first he’d ever written by himself, and the first he’d played for Makoto to hear.

Maybe that made it special. Possibly, it meant nothing at all. Haruka finishes tuning his guitar—the beat-up old acoustic his dad had given him when he started middle school. It’s covered from neck to bridge in dents, scratches, and the occasional aquarium sticker from Ren and Ran.

Then, holding the first chord down, he drags his pick down across the strings.

The sound echoes off the walls of the garage, filling him like a glass under a tap all the way to the brim, where it starts to spill over. With eyes half-closed, he starts to play—singing his silly little song about the cats with cream on their whiskers, and watching the dust spiral and dance in crazy eddies, suspended in the shafts of light to either side of Makoto’s head.

Makoto’s gaze never once falters. It remains steady on Haruka’s face, on his eyes; studying the movements of his lips, as though pinned there by magnetic attraction.

When the last strummed chord has faded into silence, Haruka’s voice dies away, too. He lets the hand holding his pick fall still.

Makoto claps. (Maybe from anyone else, this would have sounded sarcastic, but not Makoto. Never him.)

“That was wonderful, Haru-chan.”

This earns him a sharp look.

“Just Haru,” Haruka says.

“Just Haru,” Makoto agrees, pleasantly.

He is still gazing quietly up at Haruka from under his eyelashes, with his cheek resting on one knee, both drawn up to his chest. A smile lingers on his lips like the warmth that remains after the sun sets, but there’s something else there, too—something sharp, too-bright, and just barely-repressed.

Now, on some level, Haruka understands what that look means. Not the kind of understanding where he can explain it in words, since he’s no good with those—but deeper, all the way down in his bones.

It is the look of a man who is dying of thirst, standing before water that lies just out of his reach.

Haruka stands, abruptly enough to startle Makoto, and goes to put his guitar away in its case. He stuffs it inside, locks the case, and then leans it carefully against the wall by the door that leads into his house. Makoto gets to his feet as well, a fretful crease working its way into his brow.

(Weird how a guy that big can look so timid, twisting his hands together like a kid who’s done something wrong.)

“Are you finished, Haru? Should I go home?”

Haruka looks back at him. There isn’t really anything significant to be drawn from his expression, which, by and large, remains blank, but maybe just a little hint of something in his tone of voice...

“No.”

There’s a beat, and then another. Like a tidal wave, the realization seems to hit Makoto all at once.

“Oh. O- _oh._ I...”

Words fail him, and he stops short. At this moment, Haruka’s gaze is focused on his throat, where his Adam’s apple is moving quite enticingly, as he swallows. He watches as Makoto sucks in a sharp breath; a shudder wrings through him as the air hits his lungs.

He takes one step forward, towards Haruka.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to... I mean...”

“You _do_ want to,” Haruka points out. Which at least makes Makoto laugh, though not nearly enough to drain the tension out of him.

“You’re right,” Makoto admits. “Maybe more than I...”

But he doesn’t finish this sentence, either, letting it hang in the air, never reaching terminus. Haruka is fine with this; in general, he thinks people talk too much, anyway.

Instead of a reply, he just allows his eyes to fall half-shut, and tips his chin up, an impertinent look that almost dares Makoto to do something about it, to do something _to_ him—

It works like a charm. Makoto’s a little rougher than usual, probably much more so than he’d intended, when he pushes Haruka up against the side of the garage, one hand flat against the wall on each side of Haruka’s head.

The look on his face is one of sheer, pained desperation.

Haruka barely has any time to wonder if anyone can hear or see them through the open garage door before Makoto presses against him, _into_ him like he’s trying to melt right through, and Haruka’s brain short-circuits. The rough concrete digging into the backs of his arms is cool but the inside of Makoto’s mouth is warm and wet, sticky-sweet like the cola he’s been drinking with a hint of salt, courtesy of the summer heat. When he grazes Haruka’s lower lip with his teeth, it wrenches a sound from Haruka that he hadn’t even known he was capable of making. Makoto answers with a low groan that sends little frissons of pleasure dancing down Haruka’s spine.

Tentatively, as though he isn’t sure he’s allowed, Haruka brings his hands up, letting them rest first on Makoto’s shoulders before sliding up his neck to the back of his head, to tangle in his hair. The heat of Makoto’s skin, his scalp, under Haruka’s fingertips is intoxicating, and Haruka thinks that if Makoto is dying of thirst, then he must be drowning. Makoto touches him and fills him from the inside out, till Haruka can think of no one else; till there’s nothing left of himself. And then—

“ _Makotoooo! Dinner time!_ ”

The voice of Makoto’s mom filters in from next door. For a fraction of a second, Makoto goes stiff, then he leaps back like he’s been burned.

The hair on the back of his head is sticking out at crazy angles from where Haruka’s fingers had carded through it. His cheeks are dark, and he’s breathing like he’s just come off running a marathon.

It’s an unusual look on him, but Haruka decides he doesn’t dislike it. Just as he takes a step forward, Makoto stumbles back again, blinking rapidly. His pupils are blown out, giving him a strange, wide-eyed look, and he shakes his head distractedly, as though trying to shoo away imaginary flies.

“I—my mom’s calling, Haru, I’ve gotta...” He trails off, and his mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound comes out. Then he slaps his cheeks between both hands, swallows hard, and says, with his gaze fixed firmly on the floor, “I’ll—see you later, okay?”

Haruka does not answer, which Makoto seems to interpret as permission to flee. Having apparently managed to wrestle something approaching his normal smile back onto his face, he ducks hurriedly out of the garage, and disappears from sight.

Now alone, Haruka simply... stands there, the heat rapidly dissipating from his skin, Makoto’s spit drying on his lips. The sound of Makoto’s mom chiding him in the next-door yard reaches him; muffled, as though his ears are full of cotton wool.

“ _You look a sight, Makoto! Didn’t you brush your hair before you went over to Haruka’s this morning?_ ”

_Probably, he did_ , Haruka thinks. He breathes in, then out, flexing his fingers, and ignoring the uncomfortable, creeping feeling in his palms. Skin doesn’t get lonely—that’s just not a thing that happens.

Then he turns, and goes inside to make dinner. It won’t make itself, after all.

*

If you were to sit him down and ask him, Haruka would tell you that he doesn’t really remember how this all started.

(He would be lying, of course, but that’s only to be expected, for such a personal question.)

Actually, it was about three years ago, on a Thursday afternoon after school. They’d been hanging out at the park, seated on the lawn under the shade of a particularly gnarly tree, just close enough to the playground that they could hear the kids.

Haruka was playing his guitar, as always, and Makoto was listening, as always. In that sense it was a day like any other; a day just like dozens that had come before it, and dozens that would come after as well. And maybe things would have stayed the same between them, forever into eternity, if Makoto hadn’t asked him this question:

“Hey, Haru-chan... have you ever kissed a girl?”

Halfway through plucking a wordless song, Haruka’s fingers go still over the strings.

“...What?”

Makoto chuckles, a weird, nervous sound. His eyes are downcast.

“A- Ayumi-chan asked me out today, you see. Behind the school building,” he clarifies, as though it’s an important detail not to be left out.

“Oh.”

There does not seem to be anything else worth saying to this, so Haruka says nothing. But quite suddenly, and apropos of nothing, the desire to play has deserted him.

He loosens his grip, resting the guitar flat across his lap, and allows the silence to extend, stretching on and on with no end in sight.

Normally, Haruka employs this tactic as a way of encouraging Makoto to fill the silence with words; to explain himself, and make everything clear. But today, it takes far longer than Haruka expects for that to happen—or maybe it’s just that the silence _feels_ long, for whatever reason. He fidgets with his pick, frowning slightly, and still Makoto doesn’t say anything. He just stares at his hands in his lap, and Haruka can’t see his eyes.

Haruka flounders, trapped deep in conversational limbo. Because he isn't thinking straight, the moment an ugly thought raises its head, he finds himself breaking the silence to voice it:

“Do you _want_ to kiss her?”

“Umm...”

There’s a flicker of green somewhere beneath the curtain of Makoto’s hair that lets Haruka know that their eyes _almost_ —but not quite—met.

“Well, I... I turned her down.”

Despite his usual air of detachment, Haruka is paying enough attention to notice that this is not technically an answer to his question. All the same, the foreign tightness in his chest evaporates, like it was never there at all. He picks up his guitar again, flattening his fingers across the frets, and focuses his attention on the sensation of strings indenting the calluses on his hand—a sensation that hovers somewhere on the border between pleasure and pain.

“But...” Makoto’s hands are working uselessly in his lap, grasping at invisible things. “It made me think...”

“What?”

“That... maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. P-practicing, I mean.”

“I _am_ practicing,” Haruka tells him.

This startles a brief, but genuine laugh out of Makoto; he raises his head, and stares directly at Haruka. His eyes are watery and bright.

“Not _that_ ,” Makoto says, grinning shyly. “I meant. K-kissing.”

Haruka pauses, giving this all the consideration that his thirteen-year-old, guitar-addled and music-obsessed brain can muster.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, doubtful.

Makoto sucks in a sharp breath, as though he wasn’t expecting to hear that.

“I—I don’t think so. I mean... not that I’d know. Yet,” he adds.

All of a sudden, Haruka realizes that Makoto has been inching closer to him across the grass, until they’re almost knee to knee. And then they _are_ because Makoto is leaning in closer, Haruka’s hands still over his guitar strings, Makoto’s bony knee jamming into his thigh and without thinking, he shuts his eyes.

Everything in the universe and beyond focuses down to a point—the point where Makoto’s lips are pressed against his. Nothing else registers. His ears fill with white noise, a kind of staticky buzzing, drowning out the cicadas and the kids screaming just across the way.

Fire licks at his insides, turning all his doubts to ash.

It does not last long; in fact, barely a moment passes before Makoto pulls back. He appears simultaneously dazed, happy, and worried in equal measures. With a faraway look in his eyes, he licks his lips, and then smiles.

“How... was it? Haru-chan?”

Haruka is struggling not to stare at the wet shine on Makoto’s mouth. He covers the lower half of his face with a hand, which is trembling, nearly imperceptibly.

“Not too bad,” he mumbles. “And don’t call me that.”

Makoto bursts out laughing.

Bristling, Haruka looks away. Still, this is more familiar territory, and he can feel his shoulders loosening up a little as some of the tension drains from them.

“Okay,” Makoto says finally,  as the chuckles die down, “okay. I’m sorry, Haru. But... it wasn’t bad, right?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Right.” Makoto nods, looking strangely pleased. He hesitates for a moment, then rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy again. “Then... maybe we should practice again, sometime?” The smile remains on his face, but his gaze slides away, falling off to the side. “We should... make sure you’re ready for the day a girl asks you out. Don’t you think?”

Haru looks down. It’s incredibly rare for him to be actually upset with Makoto, so he barely even recognizes the feeling, but for some reason there’s a weird seed of irritation setting down roots in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t fathom it, but it makes him want to snap something at Makoto, like _I don’t need to be ready for that_ or _Why should I care?_ or even just _Shut up!_

He wants to, but he won’t. Haruka shoves down the ugly feelings, and says, instead, “If you want to.”

(He pretends not to notice the way Makoto’s smile grows so wide, it looks like it hurts.)

*

Three years later, they are still practicing. No girl has asked Haruka out yet, but this doesn’t seem to have deterred Makoto one bit. (Haruka supposes that when the day comes, he’ll be as ready as one can possibly be.)

That morning he woke up, got dressed, went downstairs, and then spaced out at the stove and burned the mackerel he was going to have for breakfast. It wasn’t unsalvageable, just a tad charred, but still—he ought to have taken it as a sign of things to come.

The rest of his morning proceeds normally; he retrieves his guitar case from the garage, picks up Makoto at his front door, and then walks to school. By the time they reach the school gates, he’s almost forgotten the mackerel-burning incident of earlier that morning.

Fittingly, it’s at the shoe lockers at school when the other shoe finally drops.

“We should start a band,” Nagisa announces, hanging off of Makoto’s shoulders like an overgrown sloth. He is using his outdoor voice directly adjacent to Makoto’s ear, making him wince. “Hey, did you guys hear me? Mako-chan? Haru-chan? Hellooooo?”

Haruka doesn’t bother pointing out that Makoto would have to be deaf not to have heard him (though in all fairness, at this point, impending deafness seems likely to be in Makoto’s future).

He shuts his shoe locker, and heaves the guitar bag back onto his shoulder.

“Do what you want, but leave me out of it.”

At once, Nagisa slides off of Makoto and comes over to headbutt Haruka in the shoulder.

“Don’t saaaaaay that, Haru-chan. You have to be in it, too, or there’s no point!”

“Do you even play any instruments?”

“No, but I can learn! I made this new friend in the concert band who plays piano, and I mean, Mako-chan’s been with you forever, right? He’s gotta have picked _something_ up!”

Makoto laughs weakly, sounding a bit like he’s wishing Nagisa would leave him out of it.

“Nagisa, I don’t know if I really need to... uhm...”

As clear as day, Haruka hears what’s left unsaid, and something tightens in his chest. _Haru’s playing is enough for me_.

All the same, he’s surprised he’s never had this idea himself. After all, he likes music, and he likes Makoto. Put ‘em together, what could go wrong?

“I guess I could teach Makoto,” he says, suddenly, interrupting the reluctant play-fight Makoto is embroiled in as he attempts to fend Nagisa off.

As one, they both turn to look at Haruka.

“H-Haru?”

“Haru-chan? Wait, really? You’ll really do it?! YAY!” Like a squirrel on steroids, Nagisa bounds off. “I’m gonna go tell Rei-chan so he can join, too!”

Haruka assumes this ‘Rei-chan’ is Nagisa’s new friend from the concert band. He has no idea how well that’s going to go, but fortunately that’s a problem for Nagisa, not him.

Makoto hasn’t moved; he’s still looking at Haruka, lips parted in a lingering ‘o’ of surprise.

“What?” Haruka says.

The sound of his voice makes Makoto remember to close his mouth. “Um...” He scratches his chin, sheepishly. “Nothing, I guess.”

*

He brings it up again on the way home, though, bumping their shoulders together lightly as they walk side by side, away from the school gates.

“Haru... are you sure about this?”

Haruka doesn’t bother mentioning how the last time Makoto asked him that, they ended up kissing in his garage. He only shrugs. As Makoto well knows, he doesn’t like explaining himself any more than is strictly necessary.

They’d gone back and forth a bit trying to decide what Haruka should teach him. Guitar was the obvious choice, but for whatever reason, Makoto was dead set against it. (In all honesty, this kind of hurt Haruka’s feelings, not that he would ever have mentioned it.) Haruka’s dad did have a drum set in storage somewhere, but it wasn’t electronic and Haruka wasn’t interested in dealing with neighborhood noise complaints.

Then, he suggested the bass. Haruka generally sucks at explanations, but this one goes over surprisingly well; something along the lines of accompanying the guitar, establishing the band’s beat and anchoring its rhythm. He’s just wondering whether he should sprinkle in more technical terminology or leave it out when Makoto gives him a secretive sort of smile.

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” he’d said.

So Haruka texted his dad, asking if one of his friends could borrow a bass guitar from his collection. At first, the answer had been:

> _NO. Obviously not._

And then, after some clarification, it became:

> _Oh, you meant Makoto? OK, but make sure he takes care of it_.

With Makoto waiting outside, Haruka rummages around in the poorly-lit storeroom next to his dad’s study, shifting boxes and other random crap around in an attempt to navigate the space. His dad’s instruments are in one of the back closets, all neatly laid out in their display stands.

He selects a Fender at random, then extracts a little portable amp from a terrifying Tetris-esque mountain of musical paraphernalia, before returning to the surface.

“What’s that?” Makoto asks, when he emerges from the room.

“An amplifier. It’s for the bass.”

“Oh.” Makoto blinks, looking very much out of his depth. “You don’t usually use one, do you?”

Haruka is slightly surprised to discover that he’s right. Over a decade of being together, and Makoto’s never really heard him play electric. The realization weirds him out a little; feels wrong, somehow, though he doesn’t know why. It’s not as if they’ve ever had access to a music room, and it’s just one more thing to carry. Plus, he’d always have to be looking for somewhere to plug in...

“I like my acoustic guitar,” he says, in lieu of that lengthy explanation.

He doesn’t think Makoto hears everything else, but that will have to do for the moment. With Makoto watching, curiously, he kneels down and gets everything hooked up. He turns the volume way down on the amp before playing a few test notes, getting it tuned up. Unlike the guitars, which Haruka messes around with every once in a while, this bass hasn’t been touched in ages, and it’s uncomfortably out of tune.

While Haruka is fiddling with the tuning pegs, Makoto clears his throat.

“Your dad said it was okay, right?”

“Yeah.”

Makoto coughs.

“Umm... so how much does that cost, anyway?”

Haruka studies it for a moment, considering.

“Probably about six hundred dollars.”

“ _Six_ —?!” Makoto chokes on still air.

Haruka shrugs. “It’s pretty cheap for a bass.”

Makoto doesn’t add anything else, possibly because he doesn’t know what to say.  Haruka tweaks the tuning peg for the fourth string just a tad, gives it a strum, and then nods with satisfaction. He gets to his feet and moves over to where Makoto is seated on the tatami floor, draping the strap over Makoto’s head so it falls across his shoulders, then shoves the bass into his hands.

“Um,” Makoto says, awkwardly. He holds it stiffly, the same way that someone might hold a child for the first time; unsure of where to grip and where to support. He also looks vaguely like he might be reconsidering all of the decisions that have led him up to this point. “But... what are _you_ going to play, Haru?”

Haruka blinks. He’d been so focused on getting Makoto set up that it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“We’re teaching you right now. I don’t have to play anything.”

“But...” Makoto blinks up at him, with a helpless smile. “I want to play with you, Haru-chan.”

There must be some kind of scientific principle outlining the impossibility of saying ‘no’ to Makoto when he looks like that—like a love-starved puppy that has magically been molded into the shape of a sixteen-year-old boy. It’s actually so embarrassing that the back of Haruka’s neck begins to itch in sympathy.

He turns and marches back into the storeroom, emerging minutes later hauling a cherry-red electric and another amplifier behind him.

“You’re going to play that?”

Haruka ignores him, figuring there’s no point in answering the obvious. He hooks everything up, and then sits down across from Makoto, cross-legged, with the guitar in his hands.

“You’ve never heard me play on one before,” he announces, though it isn’t immediately clear who this is addressed to as he is staring at a point about a foot above and to the left of Makoto’s head. “So now you will.”

He starts with his thumb on the low E string, no frets held down, and pulls it once. The note, so different from the sound of an unplugged acoustic, fills the air—but not for long, as it’s followed by a flurry of others, chasing each other’s tail in a frantic melody that Makoto’s never heard before. Hunched over the guitar, Haruka drills a riff down the fretboard, sliding, pulling off; _showing_ off the best that he can.

He doesn’t know why he’s doing this now, when Makoto hears him play nearly every day: the same silly little tunes... the song about the cats. But for some reason, it’s different now. Haruka feels that as strongly as he’s ever felt anything in his life. He can’t explain why that must be so; only that it _is_ , and he is merely responding to it.

When it’s over, he feels weirdly out of breath, even though he hasn’t moved from where he’s sitting. The last note fades away, and the room is all stillness.

His fingers tremble slightly, resting where they are against the pickguard. He can’t predict what kind of expression Makoto is making, and a small part of him is almost afraid to find out. It takes everything he’s got to drag his gaze up from the floor, away from his own socked feet, to chance a look at Makoto.

Makoto... is staring. Like he’s never seen Haruka play before in his entire life; like he’s just woken up from a coma and this is the first time he’s ever seen Haruka hold a guitar.

He blinks a couple of times, his eyes going unfocused, then focusing again. And when he finally smiles, it’s wonky, almost drunk—slightly lopsided, like he’s forgotten how to put it on straight.

(Haruka has never seen Makoto smile like that before.)

“ _...whoa_.”

Strangely embarrassed, Haruka looks away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Makoto lick his lips. He still looks like a man trying to regain his balance, as though the room is a ride that’s still spinning, and he’s trying not to fall off.

“Can you... really teach me?” he asks. “How to do that.”

“It’s different on the bass,” Haruka mumbles. His voice refuses to come out right, with his throat uncomfortably dry. “It’s... still cool, though.”

_I want to see you play, too_. (He doesn’t say this part out loud, but he hopes Makoto can hear it, anyway.)

“Okay,” Makoto says, and smiles slowly. “Show me how.”

*

Haruka doesn’t know if he’d call Makoto a natural, exactly, but he’s definitely a hard worker. He takes Haruka’s dad’s stuff back home that night, and within a couple of weeks, the fingertips of his left hand have developed healthy calluses.

This is a detail that Haruka discovers the next time Makoto pins him up against the wall of the garage, nuzzling hungrily into his neck.

“Haru—” he breathes, sounding strained, “ _Haru_ —sorry—can I—please?”

Haruka doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but he can’t imagine it’d be anything bad. So he nods, and shuts his eyes, waiting to find out.

In another moment, his eyes fly open again as Makoto, moving tentatively, slips fingertips underneath the hem of Haruka’s shirt, at the small of his back, to touch his skin. The sensation is unexpectedly rough; stimulating, in more ways than one. Without thinking, Haruka lets out a hiss of breath between clenched teeth.

Makoto immediately pulls his hand away.

“S-sorry. I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean it, Haru,” he mumbles, the words muffled somewhere in the vicinity of Haruka’s collarbone. Being taller than Haruka, he has to hunch over to lean into him, and from this vantage point Haruka can see his shoulders shaking.

He doesn’t know what to do. Most of the time he just rolls with the punches, but once in every so often, Haruka finds himself wishing this came as easily to him as music.

He settles for resting his hands on Makoto’s shoulders, trying to hold him steady, and tilting his face down to press his nose against the top of Makoto’s head, burying it in his hair, where he gets a strong whiff of Makoto’s shampoo.

“I don’t... mind,” he mumbles, and hopes that’s the right thing to say.

Makoto laughs, but not the kind of laugh Haruka is used to hearing: a little shaky, a lot distant. It makes the back of his neck prickle, and not in a good way.

“I know you don’t. Don’t worry, Haru-chan, I’ll get a grip. Just... just give me a minute.”

Nose pressed to the side of Haruka’s neck, Makoto breathes in—one long, slow, trembling breath. He holds it for so long that Haruka almost starts to get concerned.

Then out once more, and this time, it’s steady.

“Sorry.”

He takes a step back, leaving Haruka frozen in place against the wall. Without looking at him, Makoto moves back to where his borrowed bass rests, and picks it up—just in time for them to hear footsteps approaching the garage door.

Haruka hesitates, then steps away from the wall. He’s at least got the presence of mind to do that much, but he doesn’t have time to figure out what to do with his hands.

Which is why, when Nagisa pokes his head under the garage door, he is just standing in the middle of the garage, looking awkward and slightly disheveled. Luckily, Nagisa either doesn’t notice or doesn’t bother commenting; he just smiles sunnily, and ducks under the door without an invitation.

“Haru-chan, Mako-chan! Are you practicing? I brought someone with me!”

Nagisa’s ‘someone’ turns out to be the mysterious Rei-chan, the friend of concert band origins. He has glasses, which he continually presses higher up on the bridge of his nose with long, slender fingers that would look good on a keyboard. Haruka hates to stereotype, but even he has to admit that sometimes, you can tell what a person plays just by looking at them.

“You must be Haru-chan-senpai,” says Rei, stiffly. “And you must be Mako-chan-senpai, is that correct?”

Haruka exchanges a glance with Makoto, who looks like he’s smothering a grin. No words necessary, this time.

“Yeah,” he says, not bothering to clarify further. He looks at Rei, curiously. “So you’re interested in joining a band, I guess?”

Rei sniffs. “I wouldn’t go so far as that,” he says, deftly ignoring Nagisa’s wails of protest in the background. “Nagisa-kun has merely been so— _persistent_ —about it that I figured it would be no loss to accompany him today.”

“I told him he just _had_ to hear you, Haru-chan! He _has_ to, or he won’t understand!” This, in Nagisa’s usual fashion, is accompanied with far more waving and gesturing than a sane mind would deem necessary. “You’re already practicing, so you’ll definitely play for us, right?!”

Haruka doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks at Makoto, who winces.

“I don’t... um... know if I’m really ready for that, Nagisa, I only started a couple of...”

Haruka picks up his guitar, and _fwumps_ down on the floor across from Makoto, grabbing his attention so thoroughly that his words trail off into silence. He raises his head; tilts it subtly, and looks at Makoto.

“Just follow my lead.”

Makoto gulps, but manages to produce a small, wry smile.

“...I thought that was what the bass was for.”

Haruka just shrugs. He’s never been concerned with timelines. “We’ll get there.”

He doesn’t wait; just launches into the opening of a very old song they’ve been practicing together, _Sunshine of Your Love_. He picked this one in particular for the easy bass riff; it’s something Makoto would be able to pick up on a basic level, without needing to know any complicated techniques. After a bar or two passes, Makoto joins in, hesitantly, his fingers moving clumsily over the thick bass strings.

Nagisa gasps and starts to clap, but that’s nothing compared to the sound of wonder he emits when Haruka opens his mouth next.

Haruka’s English ability is practically non-existent, but having heard his dad’s favorite songs from the time when he was literally a baby has made his pronunciation halfway decent. Okay, he might not have a clue what he’s saying, but he can sure make it sound convincing.

“ _It’s getting near dawn..._ _  
_ _When lights close their tired eyes..._

_I’ll be with you, darling, soon..._ _  
_ _I’ll be with you when the stars are falling_ —”

Dimly, he realizes that Makoto has stopped playing again, so he finishes out the bar and then looks up.

The three of them are just looking at him, and he’s not adept enough at reading faces to be able to tell what that means, in aggregate.

He focuses on each on them in turn. Nagisa, furthest to his left, appears to be emitting real live sparkles. Rei, in the middle, has forgotten to close his mouth. And Makoto...

Makoto is making that expression that Haruka has only ever seen once before—that look like he’s had too much to drink, and still can’t get enough.

It’s uncomfortable having everyone’s attention focused on him like this, so he shifts around restlessly for a few moments, and then says, irritably, “What?”

“Have you ever considered joining the concert band?” Rei asks him, breathlessly.

“Don’t you _dare_ say that, Rei-chan! I knew him first! He’s joining _my_ band!”

“Who said I’m joining your band?”

Nagisa makes a sound like _ngnhhgnh_ between his teeth as he headbutts Haruka in the shoulder again. “Haru-chaaaaaan—”

Laughing, Makoto pulls Nagisa off of him. “Don’t be like that, Nagisa.” To Haruka, he says more quietly, with an expression approaching a grin, “—I didn’t know your English was so good.”

Haruka scowls. “It’s not.”

And he wants to point out that Makoto knows that, too, but Nagisa and Rei are watching and he doesn’t want to get into that now. Doesn’t want to start talking to Makoto like no one else is around, because things can get away from him _real_ fast when it’s just the two of them and Makoto is looking at him like _that_.

Meanwhile, Rei stuffs his hands into his pockets, and spins to face away. “Well, I—perhaps I’ll consider your offer, Nagisa-kun.” His voice is unusually high-pitched. “What was that song called, again?”

Haruka tells him, and then tells him again, and then gets annoyed and tries to write it on Rei’s hand, and his spelling is atrocious but it’s good enough to get the general idea across.

“I’ll look it up online,” Rei says, tersely, staring at the words that Haruka has haphazardly scrawled across his palm. “It seems easy enough, I can probably learn it in a few minutes.”

Nagisa is rocking back and forth, from the balls to the heels of his feet, and back again. “Are you sure, Rei-chan? That seems awfully fast.”

“Nagisa-kun, I know you don’t have any musical education, but _please_. It’s just the same melody played over and over again.” He pauses. “A cool melody, but. Nevertheless! It is no Mozart.”

“Ohhh, Mozart, huh? Don't you think you're too young for that sort of thing?”

“Hang on,” Makoto calls, as the two of them turn to leave, Rei looking like he’s gathering up the breath to launch into an argument. “How are you going to be in a band, Nagisa? You don’t play anything.”

Nagisa turns back around, drawing himself up with hands on hips and his chest thrust out. “Didn’t I tell you?” he says, slyly. “I’ve been teaching myself the drums.”

“But... _how?_ ”

Nagisa deflates a few inches. “YouTube tutorials. It’s really hard, guys, but I’m trying!”

“Do you even have sticks?”

“...no.” He pouts, scuffing his sneaker on the floor of Haruka’s garage.

Rei sighs, and pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, though if one were paying attention they might note that they were already positioned perfectly. Doing so, however, gives him an opportunity to hide the darkening of his cheeks from view.

“Then we’ll just have to get you some, won’t we?”

Nagisa’s mouth falls open, and then his eyes grow huge and watery.

“ _Rei_ -chan!”

“Yes, yes. Okay. Okay, that’s _enough_ ,” Rei says, trying—and failing—to extract himself from Nagisa’s octopus grip. “We can go shopping for them tomorrow, if you want. I don’t know that we’ll be ready to try playing together that soon, especially since Nagisa-kun has probably never touched a drum set in his life, but I would—ah—” he clears his throat, “be interested in hearing Haru-chan-senpai perform again. If you wouldn’t mind, of course.”

Haruka just blinks.

“...Sure.”

With a smile and a polite bow, Rei excuses them from the garage, dragging Nagisa in his wake like a fleshy barnacle. Silence returns to the garage, and Haruka merely watches their shadows recede from under the gap of the half-open garage door, until they disappear down the street.

Now that they’re alone, he is once again acutely aware of Makoto’s eyes on him, lingering on the side of his face and neck. This makes him feel very exposed for some reason, so he busies himself with the tuning pegs of his guitar even though it’s already perfectly in tune, twiddling them pointlessly back and forth.

“Want to sing that for me again, Haru?” Makoto asks, quietly.

Haruka refuses to turn round. He has now turned his attention to his distortion pedal, and is playing with the knobs on that as yet another reason to not look at Makoto.

“You don’t even know what the words mean.”

Makoto chuckles. Not his usual laugh, all sunshine and lightness; more like a low rumble in the chest. “Do you?”

And it’s a pity, because Haruka is _just_ on the cusp of coming up with something to say with when the twins start hollering from next door.

“ _Oniiiii-chan! Mom says it’s time for dinner!_ ”

From somewhere off to his right, out of his field of vision, Makoto sighs.

“You heard them.” He gets to his feet; Haruka hears him starting to unplug all his gear. “Should I ask my mom if you can come?”

Haruka shakes his head. “I’ll play on my own for a bit.”

“Okay.”

Makoto zips up his borrowed bass in the borrowed bag, slings it over his shoulders, and then picks up the amp to carry it out. He heads over to the garage door, but just before he ducks outside, stops, and glances back.

“Hey, Haru.”

Haruka, forgetting for a moment that he’s still refusing to look at Makoto, glances up. Makoto smiles at him, and pats the garage door.

“Leave this open,” he says. “I want to hear you play.”

He leaves. Haruka waits until his footsteps are gone before squeezing his eyes tight shut. His hands feel foreign, like two alien blobs attached to the ends of his arms, which hang limply at his sides. Another minute and Makoto might have managed to convince him to sing that song again, for him. And yeah, Haruka’s English sucks, but he knows enough to understand the word _darling_ and a few other sentence fragments—enough to know that the lyrics weren't exactly... _innocuous_.

He recalls how Makoto’s brand-new calluses had felt on his skin, and his breath sticks in his throat. Maybe, he thinks, singing that song would have made Makoto get a little rough with him, again.

(Maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad, either.)

Frustrated with himself and even more frustrated that he doesn’t understand why, Haruka strums a chord. Then he winces, and twists the knobs on his distortion pedal back to where they’re supposed to be; drive to the left, tone to the right, and down on the volume as well, now that he’s no longer playing with someone else.

He tries the same chord once more—yes, much better—and shuts his eyes, starting to play. Comprehending the full spectrum of human emotion might be beyond his grasp, but no matter what happens, he’ll always have music.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you liked it. A big thank you to [autumnalesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnalesque) for the moral support.
> 
> I'll update again soon.
> 
> For your enjoyment: [Cream's 'Sunshine of Your Love', covered by Rebel Kicks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_PtTg36u5k).


	2. dawn surprise

 

 

Rei’s message arrives three days later, just as Makoto and him are getting home from school.

Well, it’s more like six messages in a row, actually. Not that Haruka’s counting—they just make his phone vibrate for half a minute straight, long enough that he yanks it out in irritation to try to make it shut up.

Makoto looks askance at him as he stands in the entrance hall and scans through them, reading silently. When he finishes, he hands over his phone to let Makoto scroll through as well, because it’s way too much trouble to try to summarize.

It starts out with an introduction and various apologies—for calling them by weird names, and for getting his number from Nagisa—but by the third message it turns business-like, entirely logistical. _If Nagisa-kun is serious about this_ , it reads, _then he needs a place to practice regularly_. Which is a fair point; YouTube tutorials and practice pads are great, but they’re no substitute for the real thing. Plus, Rei admits, he has... _concerns_... about letting Nagisa loose on the percussion section at his club.

Perfectly valid concerns, in Haruka’s opinion. Of course, Nagisa can behave himself when the occasion calls for it. But all that fancy pro gear is expensive, accidents _can_ happen, and Haruka isn’t remotely interested in picking up a part-time job to pay off any debts Nagisa incurs.

Then he wonders why he even cares, because it’s not like the band was _his_ idea. He’s just starting to mull this thought over when Makoto draws his attention with a shrug and a smile.

“Why don’t you ask your dad?”

Haruka blinks. For some reason, that had literally never even occurred to him; it was as though he’d forgotten that talking to his father was a thing that he could do.

“Good idea.” Haruka dropped his phone back into his pocket, reaching down to pull off his shoes. “I’ll call him.”

“Ah, I’m gonna drop my bag off at home and get some things.” Makoto hands over the supermarket bag he’d been carrying, then ducks back out of the entrance hallway. “I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

“Sure.”

Haruka leaves his school bag in the living room, by the door. Over in the kitchen, he puts the shopping bag down on the counter, then starts pulling things out of it, hand over hand. A packet of curry paste, a can of sliced bamboo shoots, peppers, a can of coconut milk—all of this, he leaves on the counter next to the bag. As for the package of chicken breast right at the bottom, for the moment, it goes into the fridge.

He pulls on his apron, tying it neatly behind his back, and then gets his phone out. It occurs to him that he doesn’t even know if his dad would be busy, this time of evening. Maybe he’s having dinner or working or doing something important, and it’d be a bad time to interrupt.

He calls anyway. The phone rings four-and-a-half times before it connects.

“ _Hello? Haruka? Is everything all right?_ ”

Haruka exhales, very slowly. (He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.)

“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to ask you something.”

His dad chuckles. Over the phone, the sound of his voice coming from Tokyo is tinny and faraway, like a transmission from space. Leaning against the counter, Haruka switches the phone to his other ear, and shuts his eyes.

“ _I was thinking it was unusual for you to call. What’s up? How’s Makoto liking that bass?_ ”

Without quite understanding why, Haruka feels a hint of a smile coming on. Alone in the kitchen, he covers his mouth with his free hand—fingers curling into his own cheek, pressing just a little too hard.

“It’s... going well. He’s learning.”

“ _Well, that’s good to hear. I hope you’re having fun with it_.”

“We’re starting a band.”

The silence that follows this pronouncement is palpable. While it stretches on, the sound of Makoto letting himself back into the house permeates into the kitchen. Haruka stands up a little straighter.

“ _You’re...?_ ”

(The disbelief in his dad’s voice makes him bristle, slightly.)

“With some friends.”

“ _Oh_.”

Makoto pokes his head into the kitchen, sees him on the phone, and smiles as he comes in to lean up against the counter next to Haruka.

“ _That’s... that’s really great, Haruka. I’m really—_ ” Haruka’s dad clears his throat. “ _I’m proud of you._ ”

“It’s nothing,” Haruka mutters. He bumps elbows with Makoto, who grins at him but remains silent for the time-being.

“ _Is that what you wanted to ask me about?_ ”

“Not really... we need somewhere to practice.”

From hundreds of miles away, Haruka’s dad makes a thoughtful noise in his ear. “ _Ah, I see. Mmm... I have a friend back home who has a studio. Let me give him a call first. I’ll send you the information when I get it, okay?_ ”

“Okay.”

“ _Did you need anything else?_ ”

“No.” There’s a moment of silence, and then all at once, in a single breath, Haruka adds, “—thanks.”

The smile is audible in his dad’s voice. “ _You’re very welcome, Haruka_.”

He hangs up. Makoto tilts his head at him.

“How’d it go?”

“He said he’d send me some info.”

Makoto smiles. “Nagisa will be happy to hear that, I’m sure.”

Heading back into the living room, Makoto kneels down and feels around in his overnight bag for a bit, then extracts a couple of DVD cases, holding them up so Haruka can see.

“I brought some new ones over. Bet we’ll find something you like this time!”

“Doubt it.” Haruka makes a soft scoffing noise as he re-adjusts his apron, then turns back to the counter to start washing the peppers.

Movie night is one of many long-standing traditions between the two of them, and Haruka actually quite likes it, despite the fact that he generally considers movies to be a boring waste of time. It was something they’d been doing since they were kids, swapping off whose house it was held at (and sometimes even including Ren and Ran, if they happened to be in the mood for their seventeenth thousandth viewing of _Frozen_ ).

It’s not something Haruka likes to dwell on, but he’s dubiously aware of it, all the same: ever since Nagisa had suggested starting the band that day, things have started to change. He can’t explain it even if he wanted to, but he _feels_ it, even—especially—between Makoto and himself. There’s something nebulous that hangs in the air, an unnatural affliction that clogs up his throat with awkwardness.

So Haruka is glad for movie night; for cooking dinner together, and for Makoto sleeping over at his place. It’s comforting to imagine that some things, at least, stay the same.

He listens to the sound of water running in the bathroom as he simmers the curry, and fifteen minutes later, pulls the pot off the stove just in time for Makoto to emerge from his bath. Makoto comes into the kitchen, hair damp and wearing his home clothes, and sidles up beside Haruka to peer into the pot.

“Oh, that smells divine, Haru.” He grins, as though he knows what Haruka is going to say.

“Not really. Doesn’t have mackerel in it.” Right on cue.

“Don’t be like that. You get to pick next time, you know. If we didn’t take turns choosing, I’d be eating mackerel for the rest of my life.”

“I don’t see a problem with that arrangement.”

Makoto just sighs, on the verge of saying something else, but then the rice cooker beeps. He goes to pop it open and let the steam out, then fluffs the rice with the paddle and doles it out into bowls while Haruka serves the curry.

“You know, mackerel don’t have hands to play guitar with,” he says, conversationally, as they seat themselves at the low table in the living room, food and cutlery in a spread before them.

“So?”

“So that’s going to be a problem for you, when you turn into one.”

(Haruka ignores this.)

They put their hands together, say their thanks for the food, and start to eat. Haruka isn’t much of a talker, but Makoto knows how to fill the silences between them just right. At one point he holds up his right hand to show Haruka the blisters he’s gotten from plucking the bass, which earns him a sympathetic wince. Apart from that, they just... talk; Makoto taking the lead and Haruka jumping in when he needs to, a reassuring, age-old rhythm that they’ve had for as long as he can remember.

After dinner, they clear away the dishes, then gather at the far side of the table to face the TV in the corner of the room. Makoto selects one of his movies at random, popping it into the DVD player. It’s based on some popular drama, and within minutes, Haruka is bored.

“How is it?” Makoto whispers, maybe ten minutes in. Someone is crying on screen, or... well, something, Haruka’s not really sure. The music totally sucks, though.

In response to Makoto’s question, he grunts. His head is starting to get kinda heavy. He sways a little, and hears Makoto muffling a laugh. It annoys him, but it also feels like a ton of effort to tell Makoto off, so he doesn’t bother. Instead, he redirects his attention back to the movie—or attempts to. Soon, without even knowing it, he’s dozed off entirely.

*

When Haruka comes to, the room is already dark. Judging by the silence, the movie is long over. He’s so comfortable, though, that half a minute passes before he even starts to think about moving.

He’s cuddled up against something rather solid, yet pliant in places, and his head is tucked into a comfortable nook that he gradually comes to recognize as the space between Makoto’s shoulder and his neck. His hand rests on Makoto’s leg, several inches above the knee, with fingertips just barely grazing his inner thigh.

“Are you awake?”

Makoto’s voice comes out as barely more than a breath, tickling a few loose strands of hair on the top of Haruka’s head. Once again, he sounds as though he’s trying not to laugh.

Haruka stiffens, then pulls himself upright. He massages the side of his neck, which is a little sore, and when he speaks, his voice is gravelly from sleep.

“How long was I...”

“Hmm.” Makoto smiles. He has one hand on Haruka’s ankle, his thumb gently rubbing there, back and forth in lazy circles. (Haruka finds that he doesn’t mind this half as much as he probably should.) “I think you were out for most of the movie. It switched off... oh, about fifteen minutes ago or so.”

“You should’ve woken me up,” Haruka says, reproachful.

Makoto says nothing. He just continues to smile, shifting his fingers down to tickle the arch of Haruka’s foot. This earns him a muffled yelp and a glare as Haruka pulls his leg away, tucking it under himself instead.

“Don’t be mad, Haru,” Makoto says, brightly. “Do you want to go get a bath? I’ll do the dishes and get the futon out.”

A bath sounds like a fantastic idea, so Haruka nods. It’s a bit of a struggle getting to his feet so soon after his nap—his limbs are heavy, clumsy and half-numb with sleep—but he manages to get himself to the bathroom with his towel and a change of clothes without causing any accidents.

Sitting in the tub, chest-deep in warm, sudsy water, provides some amount of solace, although he has the oddest feeling that there’s something he’s missed. The feeling persists throughout his bath, which is maybe why he lingers for so long; by the time he gets out to drain the water, it’s been nearly twice as long as he usually takes.

He dries himself off and pulls on a pair of sweatpants, then tousles his hair briefly with his towel before heading upstairs. Makoto apparently hears him coming, because he starts talking before Haruka has even entered the room.

“You were in there for a while.” He’s kneeling in the empty space in the center of the room, adjusting the spread of the futon that he’s retrieved from Haruka’s closet. “I brushed my teeth already. I thought that maybe you’d been—”

He turns, sees Haruka, and freezes mid-sentence. The look on his face reminds Haruka strongly of a computer rebooting itself.

Haruka blinks, then goes over to sit on his bed, waiting for Makoto to finish his sentence. When he doesn’t, Haruka begins to feel rather annoyed.

“What’s wrong?”

Makoto laughs, sounding very much like he’s on auto-pilot. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself, or his hands.

“Nothing... Nothing’s wrong.”

“Don’t lie to me.” It comes out a bit sharper than Haruka had intended, but in the end that’s a good thing; Makoto startles, re-focuses, and at least manages to make full eye contact with Haruka when he speaks.

“Really, Haru, it’s just...” Makoto swallows, faltering like he’s not sure whether it’s the right thing to say, but then presses on nonetheless. “You’re not... er... wearing a shirt.”

Haruka stares at him.

“So? I haven’t put it on yet.”

“I can tell.” This is accompanied by a wry smile; despite the circumstances, Makoto seems to have retained his sense of humor.

“You see me like this all the time.”

“That’s true, but—” Again, Makoto gulps down his words, and this time, clear as day, Haruka hears all the things he doesn’t say. Nor is he wrong, really; it _feels_ different tonight, just the two of them in the big, silent house, Haruka with his hair still dripping into his eyes, the towel around his neck, and the sweatpants hung low and loose on his hips...

But thoughts like that leave him feeling exposed, even more so than he already is, and he can hardly stand it. As a poor substitute for using his words, Haruka scowls and ducks his head, reaching up to start scrubbing at his damp hair viciously with his towel.

Since he isn’t looking, he gets a bit of a shock when the mattress sinks down next to him with Makoto’s weight. Stubborn as he is, he refuses to turn his head to look, though in his peripheral vision he sees Makoto pulling his legs up and feels the bed shifting around with his movements.

After a pause, something warm and fluffy, no longer damp, touches the space between Haruka’s shoulder blades. Makoto has leaned his head against Haruka’s back—tenderly, like a kiss. Haruka startles, then again as Makoto’s fingertips laid on his waist, almost weightless. He inhales sharply, and Makoto immediately yanks his hands away like they’ve been burned.

“S-sorry,” he stutters. “I forgot to ask—”

“It’s fine.” Haruka pauses for a moment, trying to catch his breath, though with only limited success. “I don’t... really mind.”

Tentatively, as though he can’t believe his luck, Makoto returns his fingers to Haruka’s waist, coaxing a shudder from him. He follows up this movement with his palms—glacially slow, like he’s expecting Haruka to freak out and pull away at any moment—cupping Haruka’s bare waist, with fingers sliding around to the front of his body, settling in the gentle depressions between his ribs. He doesn’t _squeeze_ , exactly, in fact he barely even presses down—just touches, with the proximity of his skin to Haruka’s allowing the heat of his body to be felt.

“It’s okay, Haru,” he murmurs, dreamily. “It’s okay. You don’t need to do anything.” He leans in a little more, just enough for the tip of his nose to touch Haruka’s back. “Can I... can we... just stay like this? For a bit?”

Haruka attempts to make a sound, something like agreement, but his voice fails him. All he can do is nod. The towel, still draped over his head, blocks most of his vision, though he wouldn’t have been able to see Makoto’s face anyway, from this angle. He remains seated where he is, anchored there by the feeling of Makoto’s palms—knees pressed together, his pulse stuttering wildly—while Makoto strokes his skin and breathes against him until he feels like he’s going to burst.

After several minutes—minutes that feel like hours—Makoto finally pulls away. The absence of his hands wrapped around Haruka’s sides leaves his skin suddenly, shockingly cool in the night air.

“Sorry, Haru.” It’s meant to come out light, but ends up sounding forced. “You’re probably getting cold, huh?”

Haruka realizes that he has been clenching fistfuls of his blanket, and belatedly relaxes his hands. His gut feels tight; full of an alien heat that gnaws at his insides, making him restless. He turns. The towel falls from his head into his lap, and Makoto jumps at the suddenness of the movement, scooting back a few inches as though to make room for Haruka.

He shifts uncomfortably as he moves, drawing his knees up and away, and with a startling clarity, Haruka realizes that he is probably trying to conceal a hard-on. This is the strangest feeling he’s experienced yet: the idea that he’s done that Makoto, _him_ , Haruka, and not someone else—not a girl, not a porn video, but _him_. Without even moving a muscle, even, but simply by being near him, sharing the same physical space.

Haruka looks down, then realizes his gaze is straying near Makoto’s groin, and jerks his head around to look off to the side instead. His face feels uncomfortably hot.

“We should lie down,” he mutters, steadfast.

Makoto tilts his head. The smile he gives Haruka at that moment is heavy with secret meaning.

“...Okay.”

Without so much as a complaint, he slides past Haruka, down onto the floor, and busies himself with getting comfortable in the futon. Haruka finishes drying his hair, then drapes the towel over the chair at his desk and turns off the lights.

He climbs into his bed and gets under the covers, but his skin has other ideas; it continues to prickle all over with warmth, tying him to wakefulness. He tosses and turns for a while as he tries to settle down, but his mind wanders, dwelling on the strangest things, fragments of memories too vivid to be pushed aside—Makoto’s thumb circling his ankle; the way he crossed his legs when he was trying to hide his boner; the way he can feel Makoto’s lips curling into a smile against his mouth, sometimes, when they kiss... Not even the thought of music distracts him, because that’s all wrapped up with Makoto now, too—his hands, bigger than Haruka’s, resting on the strings, his calluses, the dire look of concentration on his face as he plays—

“Makoto?”

The word is spoken quietly, though laced with frustration.

“Haru?” Makoto’s reply is almost immediate. In contrast to his own restlessness, the dark shape of Makoto on the futon is still, but he’s clearly awake.

“...I can’t sleep.”

“Is it too hot under your blanket?”

Probably not, but Haruka gives this some conscientious thought, anyway.

“No,” he decides, at last. “Not that.”

“What’s wrong?”

What _is_ wrong? Haruka has no idea. He’s just tense, all wired up, and his mind is refusing to turn off the high-definition video loop of every time they’ve kissed this week, which is almost certainly not helping.

“I don’t know,” he says, only half-truthful.

Makoto makes a thoughtful noise, shifting around on his futon so he can raise the upper half of his body slightly off the floor, resting his chin on a hand. And as Haruka watches him move around, a thought occurs to him. It is maybe not a good thought, or even the wisest thought he could have had—but it _feels_ right, and that’s all that really matters.

“Do you think it’d help if— _Haru?!_ ”

“You’re too loud,” Haruka mutters. He has thrown off his blanket and vacated his bed, dropping down onto the floor to kneel beside Makoto. “And you need to make room for me.”

Makoto stares up at him with lips slightly parted, a slice of his face illuminated by a thread of moonlight filtering in from Haruka’s bedroom window. When he doesn’t budge, Haruka makes an irritable noise and slides a little closer. His knee bumps into Makoto’s side and Makoto startles. His eyes are skittering everywhere, flitting to Haruka’s face and then away again immediately, like he’s afraid of looking at him for too long.

“ _Makoto_.” Haruka leans down, close enough to fill Makoto’s field of vision, forcing Makoto to look at him. “Scoot over.”

Makoto moves. The futon isn’t as wide as he remembers, so it’s not that easy to squeeze in, but at least it’s more forgiving than trying to share a single bed. Haruka peels back the corner of the blanket and slides his legs in, following the movement with the rest of his body, until he is lying flat on his back next to Makoto. There is barely an inch of space between them, and Makoto’s body heat still lingers in the space he has recently vacated.

Haruka takes a deep breath, then shifts closer still.

Their shoulders touch.

He stares up at the ceiling. It looks different from down here on the floor, compared to the view from his bed. He is just thinking about this when he feels Makoto’s fingers fold uncertainly around his wrist.

Makoto seems to be waiting for something; an objection, some kind of protest, or even just a reaction at all. When nothing happens, he proceeds, trailing callused fingertips down Haruka’s loosely-open hand until he’s able to lace their fingers together, one by one.

He squeezes, bringing their palms together.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

Haruka tilts his head to the side. From the other side of the pillow they’re sharing, Makoto’s hesitant smile meets his gaze. It doesn’t seem appropriate to ignore him, what with them holding hands and all, so Haruka answers in kind.

“...hi.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep now?”

Haruka returns his gaze to the ceiling. The ticking of his mind is less insistent now; more like a murmur, and one that’s growing more and more distant by the moment. “Maybe.”

Makoto’s thumb starts to draw those lazy circles again, this time across the back of Haruka’s hand, tracing each raised bump of a finger joint with care. Despite their shared body heat under the blanket, Haruka shivers when the wandering touch grazes a sensitive spot near the base of his wrist.

It feels... good. He shuts his eyes.

“Goodnight, Haru-chan.”

Makoto’s voice is soft, muffled against the pillow; Haruka hears it faintly, as though through a fog. He starts to think that he should tell Makoto off for calling him that, but before he’s even finished the thought, he’s asleep.

*

Haruka comes awake fairly early the next morning, cradled in a warm, fuzzy glow of contentment. And also, incidentally, in Makoto’s arms.

It makes perfect sense, so it’s not like he’s upset about it. The futon’s on the small side for two grown boys, and Makoto’s always been a cuddler—something they figured out years ago, when they first started doing sleepovers. At some point they just stopped sharing a bed, and he never really thought about it again. Until now, that is.

Lazily, he peels open sleep-encrusted eyes. Makoto’s still fast asleep, his face barely inches away from Haruka’s. He’s not snoring, exactly, but there’s a gentle whistling sound every time he breathes out which makes Haruka want to laugh. He’s got one arm draped over Haruka’s side, for all the world like it belongs there, cradling him close. It’s... stifling—not really in a bad way, though Haruka isn’t sure what ‘stifling in a good way’ could mean, either.

Maybe he ought to get up, he thinks.

(Maybe—a small part of him pipes up—maybe he ought to stay where he is, and just watch the way Makoto’s eyelashes tremble every time he wheeze-snores. That would be great, too.)

It takes a decent amount of effort to extract himself from Makoto’s clutches, especially while trying not to wake him, but he eventually manages it. Makoto immediately rolls over into his spot with a murmur of something that sounds suspiciously like _Haru_ , and starts to snore in earnest.

Haruka gets dressed, brushes his teeth, then heads down to make breakfast. By the time Makoto has dragged himself downstairs, too, yawning and scratching his belly, the rice is already done.

“Good morning, Haru.” As usual, he peers over Haruka’s shoulder to take a peek at what’s cooking. “The usual, huh?”

Haruka doesn’t bother answering. As far as he can tell, Makoto is in possession of both eyes as well as a nose, and since he can both see and smell the mackerel, there is no reason for Haruka to sully the experience with words.

“Hey... Haru...”

It’s subtle, but the tone of his voice has changed, and it makes Haruka looks up. Makoto is smiling... well, kind of, but strangely—it looks foreign, like a mask he’s wearing rather than an integral part of his face. He opens his mouth, but then seems to think better of whatever he was planning to say, and what comes out instead is a nervous laugh.

“Um... did you sleep okay? Sorry if it was too hot, or if I took up too much space or something...”

“You didn’t.”

For a while, Makoto just studies Haruka’s impassive face, almost like he’s looking for something. Whether or not he finds it isn’t clear; nevertheless, the next time he smiles, it looks more normal, and Haruka feels an odd sense of relief.

“Good,” says Makoto, softly.

He hesitates again, then leans in, grazing his lips against Haruka’s temple—with such tenderness that it makes Haruka’s chest constrict. When he pulls back, they stare at each other, but only for a moment before Makoto beats a hasty retreat back to the living room. As he disappears out the door, Haruka can see that the backs of his ears have gone bright red.

He looks down, immediately. _It’s normal_ , he tells himself, squeezing his hands into fists so tightly that it starts to hurt. _This is all normal_. _Nothing is different._

The skin at his temple tingles, the way that a scar might as it heals. (It takes conscious effort to stop himself from touching it, as though holding the spot might keep the feeling of Makoto’s lips there, always.)

He turns, takes the pan off the heat and switches off the stove. The movements come sluggishly; his body appears to have opted out of listening to his brain, but as with most other things, persistence is the key.

The rest of the morning proceeds according to routine. They have breakfast, head to school, and within a few hours he’s nearly managed to put it out of his mind entirely. He spends most of his morning classes daydreaming about playing solos, and soon enough the bell rings, signifying lunch.

In the past, lunch was generally a two-person affair at best, but more and more often these days they’re joined by Nagisa and Rei. Today is no different—Nagisa catches them in their classroom before they can even think about escaping, so they all head up to the rooftop together, where Rei is waiting with his lunchbox in hand.

“Haruka-senpai. Makoto-senpai,” says Rei, nodding politely as they sit by him. Nagisa makes a point of getting Makoto to scoot over so he can plop down by Rei, then opens his lunchbox with relish.

“Here.” Meanwhile, Haruka holds out a scrap of paper, ripped from his notebook. His dad had messaged him an address and phone number earlier that day—something about a place that was run by a friend he used to jam with, Haruka wasn’t really sure. But he’d looked it up online and the Iwatobi Music Club had decent reviews, even if the exterior pictures made it look a little... run-down.

Rei takes the paper and unfolds it, studying it with curiosity. Then he brightens.

“So this is your recommendation, is it, Haruka-senpai? Wonderful. Nagisa and I shall make a visit as soon as our schedules allow.”

“Hey, hey, what’s that? A secret between Haru-chan and Rei-chan?” Predictably, Nagisa thrusts his hands out, making a grab for the scrap of paper.

“You have rice on your face, Nagisa-kun.” Rei whips the paper out of his reach.

“Huh?” Nagisa feels around his chin with a thumb, locates the grain of rice, then pops it into his mouth. Then he pouts. “Wait, don’t change the subject! I wanna know what’s on that note!”

“Don’t tease him, Rei,” Makoto laughs, amiably. “It’s just the address of a studio that we can use for practice. Haru’s dad recommended it.”

For a moment, Nagisa goes frighteningly still. There is a kind of pointed, frank curiosity in the look that he gives Haruka.

“Haru-chan... you talked to your dad?”

It’s a struggle not to react to that outwardly, and Haruka’s not sure that he succeeds. After all, isn’t it normal to talk to one’s father? He’s pretty sure it is. So he doesn’t know why Nagisa’s making such a big deal about it—or why he even feels upset in the first place.

He looks away, frowning, despite himself. “Just on the phone.”

Before Nagisa can say anything else, Makoto comes to the rescue. “So, how are the drums coming along, Nagisa? Is Rei a good teacher?”

Clearly, Nagisa has been waiting for someone to bring this up, because he immediately launches into a story about visiting the music store to pick out his first pair of sticks, complete with a pantomime re-enactment that Rei is forced to participate in.

Haruka picks moodily at the contents of his lunchbox, only listening with half an ear. He just wants to go home already so he can be with his guitar, in peace.

*

Not long after this, Rei happily delivers the report that the studio is of perfectly acceptable quality (and that, unsurprisingly, Nagisa has already made friends with everyone who works there). They set the date for their first band practice on a Saturday, two weeks into the future.

In the meantime, Makoto and him continue to work through the setlist the four of them have picked out: a couple of old classics, courtesy of Haruka, and then—because Nagisa insisted—some Japanese pop rock that Haruka finds somewhat objectionable, due to a dire lack of guitar riffs. He doesn’t listen to that much modern pop, but after some back-and-forth they manage to select a couple of songs that he at least agrees to learn the words to.

So, they practice. They play together, Haruka sings, and then when they’re alone in the house Makoto leans up against him, close enough that their noses brush. Sometimes, they kiss, but at other times they don’t; at those times, Makoto just gazes at him from way up close, letting their breaths intermingle like a secret for just the two of them—the closeness alone enough to make Haruka’s heart race. Just... well. Totally normal band stuff, of course.

To be fair, Haruka has never been in a band before, so it very well _could_ be normal, although he’s not about to ask his dad to find out. Besides, it’s far easier to pretend that nothing has changed if he just ignores everything that’s different.

Before he knows it, with no fanfare whatsoever, the day arrives. Haruka wakes up in the morning—which feels just like any other—has breakfast, then takes his guitar into the bathroom, where it is cool and dark.

He doesn’t get that many chances to play alone, these days. At times, he’s noticed that he hardly even remembers the sound of his own playing, by itself, without Makoto backing it up. He doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing, and it scares him, a little—the malleability of his memory, that is, and how quickly he forgets.

Fortunately, he knows exactly how to distract himself. He steps into the tub, which has dried off overnight, then sits down with his guitar. He doesn’t play anything specific; just noodles around on the strings for a while, savoring the way that sound bounces off the walls and makes interesting resonations. It’s weird, but he likes playing in the bathroom for the acoustics, and so long as he’s doing it alone, no one can really judge him.

Time continues to pass. He plays scales to warm up, then follows this with some barre chords from the riffs of his favorite songs, rolling up and down the fretboard with practiced ease. On an unplugged acoustic, they sound anemic; a shade of the real thing, but really, it’s all part of the charm.

He’s so lost in the sound of it that he doesn’t even realize Makoto has entered his house until he’s already in the bathroom. Wearing his usual smile, he leans down over Haruka and offers a hand.

“Haru-chan, it’s time to go. We’re going to be late.”

Looking up, Haruka frowns, his fingers stilling over the strings. The sound takes longer to die away, though, continuing to ring faintly through the room, a ghostly echo of itself.

“Don’t call me that.”

He takes Makoto’s outstretched hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet.

“Sorry.” Makoto laughs, not sounding remotely sorry, but Haruka is too lazy to press the point. He lets Makoto lead the way out of the bathroom and to the living room, where the case for Haruka’s acoustic guitar lies open. “You like playing in the bathroom, huh?”

Haruka only shrugs. “It sounds nice.” There’s other reasons too, of course, but reasons that are harder to explain. Overall, he just finds it soothing—the smooth, cool surface of the tub against his bare feet and legs; being alone in a small room; the creeping isolation of the whole experience.

He puts his guitar away in its case, locks it up, and then sets it aside, swapping it for a hard case. Inside lies his favorite electric: a blue vintage Les Paul, old but well cared-for. (He can’t remember the last time he carried one of his electric guitars outside, but today seems like a good day to start.)

They make one last stop on their way out of the house, at the small shrine in Haruka’s living room, which is located on the wall facing the screen doors that open out into the yard. The incense there has almost burned itself out, leaving wispy fingers of smoke that curl sleepily into the sky.

On the shelf, there’s a picture of Haruka’s grandmother, and next to it another one of his mom. With Makoto standing quietly by his side, he just gazes at them for a while; at their smiling faces in the photographs, the colors already starting to fade. Then he bows his head, meaning to pray, but for the longest time nothing comes to mind.

In the end, he decides on: _I’m going, now. I’ll be back_ , and leaves it at that. (He hopes that it’s enough.)

He glances to the side. Makoto’s got his eyes shut tight. After a few more moments, he opens them again and sees Haruka looking at him.

He smiles. “Ready?”

Haruka nods.

The air outside is crisp, filling his lungs with the sweetness of fall. Side by side they make their way down the street, Haruka carrying his hard case by hand, Makoto with the bass bag slung over his back.

“Ahhh...” Makoto sighs as he throws his arms up and out, stretching the fingers of one hand towards the sky. “Are you nervous?”

“Not really.”

Makoto chuckles. “I guess you wouldn’t be.” With his head still tilted back, he studies the back of his hand—or perhaps he’s looking at the slivers of sky he can see between his splayed fingers. “I’m getting kind of nervous... I bet I’ll make lots of mistakes. I don’t want to disappoint anyone...”

Haruka makes a soft, irritable noise. “You won’t.”

“You’re too nice, Haru,” says Makoto, with a smile.

If he were in the mood, perhaps he’d argue the point, but he isn’t. They walk on for a few more meters, in silence, before Makoto circles back to the subject. “I’m still not really used to it, I guess. Not like you, Haru... you were probably born with a pick in your hand.”

“Don’t say stupid things,” Haruka huffs.

“Haha...” Makoto tucks his hands behind his neck. “I’ll try not to.”

He falls silent, and part of Haruka thinks that that’s all that really needs to be said. All the same, though, and without even knowing why he does it, he finds himself reaching up, placing a hand on one of Makoto’s shoulders. Makoto stiffens, slightly, but that doesn’t stop him; he runs the hand down, along the strap of the bass bag, then slips it deftly into the gap between the bag and Makoto’s shirt, where fingers can trace the bumps of Makoto’s spine, all the way down to the small of his back.

He lets his hand linger there for a moment or two more, then pulls it back.

“It... suits you,” he mutters, forcing his gaze to the floor and walking on ahead, quickly. He doesn’t look back, but he can _feel_ Makoto’s gaze on him, and something about that makes him shiver.

It’s not that much further to the studio, which is somewhat of a relief—Haruka is getting better at sensing when there’s danger in the air between them, and this is definitely one of those times. A couple more blocks and they arrive in front of a squat, unassuming building with a lit-up sign over the door that reads _Iwatobi Music Club_. A silent look of understanding passes between them, and then Makoto reaches out to push open the door.

The man sitting at the counter looks up when the door opens. He’s got multiple piercings, a brown anchor goatee, and hair dyed a sunny shade of yellow—buzzed on the sides with a star shape shaved close to the scalp on the left.

“Oh, new faces!” he says, brightly. “Welcome to Iwatobi Mu—”

“MAKO-CHAN! HARU-CHAN!!”

An approximately humanoid blur comes barreling out of a side hallway, colliding with Haruka and nearly taking him to the ground. (Fortunately, the hard case spares his guitar from damage.) Moments after this, Rei comes puffing out after him, looking quite bewildered.

“S-sorry about this, Haruka-senpai, he’s just been—he’s—well—he’s very excited,” he pants.

“We can tell.” Makoto grins.

“Oho! Friends of yours, Nagisa?”

“GORO-CHAN!” Nagisa whips around, beaming. He still has an arm around Haruka’s neck, which means that Haruka is also made to turn around, by force. “This is our band—the four of us! This guy is Haru-chan, and that one’s Mako-chan!”

“Tachibana Makoto,” says Makoto, bowing politely. Then they all turn to look at Haruka, who grimaces.

“...Nanase Haruka.”

The man—”Goro-chan”—smiles widely.

“Ah, so you’re Akihiro’s son, eh? Hmm.” He studies Haruka for a moment. “Well, well, well.”

Haruka has no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but the conversation moves on before he can ask. “The name’s Sasabe Goro. ‘case it wasn’t clear, I run this joint. So, it looks like you guys booked...” He tilts his gaze down, flipping through the logbook on the counter, “...a full band practice studio for two hours. Need any help setting up, since it’s your first time?”

“That would be very helpful, please,” says Makoto, cheerfully ignoring the glare that Haruka fixes upon him as they make their way down the hallway that Nagisa and Rei came from.

The room is much more cramped than some of the fancy recording studios Haruka remembers visiting as a kid—there’s wires everywhere, which makes the place look a total mess, and no fancy control room with the glass window, of course—but there’s at least space enough for Haruka to stand with his guitar without feeling hemmed in, and honestly, that’s all he really needs when you get down to it.

There’s a full-size Roland keyboard over to his left, a drumset in the back, a couple of microphone stands scattered here and there, and an enormous bass amp off to the right, which he notices Makoto looking at apprehensively. Sasabe helps them get hooked up and with their sound checks, although Haruka makes a point of declining any assistance.

Left to his own devices, he plugs in his overdrive pedal, then his guitar; tweaks the settings, and then strums once down across the strings, just to try it.

The resulting sound swells to fill the entire room—not deafening, but certainly louder than he’s ever been able to play at home. Conversation dies momentarily, as everyone turns to look at him. Sasabe gives a low whistle, and grins.

“Great sound, kid. I might stop by later once you’re warmed up to hear more of it.”

Haruka looks down, closing his eyes. There is a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’s desperately trying not to label as ‘excitement’, or ‘nervousness’, or any of a hundred other feelings that he doesn’t want to be experiencing at this moment. Music is his safe haven, has always been; so much so that he doesn’t know what he’d do without it. But this... it’s not the same. Even after the distorted growl of the guitar has died away, it still rings incessantly in his ears. There’s something about that sound that is beyond his control, like a living creature with a mind of its own.

He doesn’t know what will happen next, and not knowing scares him.

“Oh, by the way.” On his way out, Sasabe stops by the door and looks back. “This is just something I do for fun, but if you kids want, I can make a sign with your band’s name on it, to hang on the door when you’re practicing.” He grins. “Has a bit more character than ‘in session’, don’t you think?”

In unison, the four of them look at each other—or, to be more precise, at Nagisa, who blinks, and then laughs sheepishly.

“Umm... yeah! Ahhh... we have a name, don’t we, guys? It’s... uh...” He rubs the back of his neck, wheels clearly turning. “It’s... _Haru-chan and the Iwatobi Rockhoppers_!”

Both Makoto and Rei choke.

“No, it’s _not_ ,” Haruka says, testily.

Sasabe’s eyes twinkle. “Haven’t decided yet, eh? Well, there’s no rush. Just let me know when you’ve thought of one.” He winks at them, then steps outside, shutting the door behind him.

“Hey, what’s wrong with that name, Haru-chan? I think it’s great!”

Makoto is stifling a laugh behind his hand, which only serves to piss Haruka off more. With the guitar dangling over his shoulders from its strap, he folds his arms over his chest and scowls.

“I’m not showing up to practice if I don’t like the name.”

“Don’t _sayyy_ that, Haru-chan—I promise I’ll go home and think up a good one, okay? One that everyone likes!”

Haruka doesn’t answer. Still scowling, he turns away, facing the microphone that he pulled over earlier to position in front of himself. It’s been ages since he’s had to stand in front of these, but he remembers how it goes, more or less. Without waiting for the others, or even asking if they’re ready, he starts to play—the same song from the first time that Nagisa had stopped by the garage with Rei in tow.

Makoto’s practiced with him the most, so he joins in almost immediately. The first couple of notes come out wonky from nervousness, but soon enough muscle memory kicks in, and his playing steadies. Then Rei comes in, with an interesting harmony layered on top of the main riff. He’s switched the instrument over to what sounds like a bluesy rock organ, and it blends well with the distortion of the guitar. Finally, though stumbling a little on the bass pedal, Nagisa completes the set.

And Haruka... Haruka never stops, never falters once; just sings straight into the mic with eyes closed, feeling nothing but the music. It’s cleansing, somehow. Everything else around him—the tension, the turmoil, the butterflies in his stomach—all of it is swept away, like paper boats down a river, swiftly forgotten.

Even after they reach the end of the song and the last tone of the organ has died away, Haruka holds the last syllable, the very last note, voice wavering gently until his lungs start to ache. He’s conscious of the fact that he’s not supposed to have his lips this close to the microphone, but somehow, in the moment, it doesn’t matter at all.

With both hands wrapped around it, cupping it, cradling it close to his mouth, it feels painfully intimate; like the way one might hold a lover.

(When he lets the note go, he’s not thinking of Makoto.)

There is a moment of silence, and then Nagisa starts to clap. Then he apparently remembers he’s seated in front of a fantastic noisemaker, and starts banging away at the toms and snare instead.

The racket startles Haruka out of his reverie; he lets go of the microphone, his hands falling limply back to his sides. He’s winded, his breath coming in short, quiet huffs.

“That was amazing, Haru-chan! You’re so cool!”

Still breathing heavily, he tips his head to the side to glance at Makoto, who grins at him. His eyes are dark with something unspoken—something that Haruka is trying with all his might not to hear.

“Haru _is_ pretty cool,” Makoto says, quietly.

Over by his keyboard, Rei is staring at his hands like he’s never seen them before. At the sound of Makoto’s voice, he looks up, his eyes falling upon Haruka. His expression is searching, faraway; a little lost.

“I’ve never...” Rei swallows, with a throat that seems dry. “Never felt that before.” From looking directly at Haruka, he sweeps his gaze to the side to land on Makoto, then shifts it again to Nagisa. He seems to be struggling with something. At long last, he admits, grudgingly, “I felt... chills.”

Maybe he wouldn’t have put it that way, himself, but Haruka thinks he knows what Rei means. He concentrates on his own breathing until it evens out; until the sound of his own pulse is no longer pounding in his head. When he feels like he’s finally come back down to earth, he turns round to face them all.

“You see, Rei-chan?!” Nagisa is beside himself with joy. “Wasn’t a band a great idea? We’re gonna have so much fun!”

‘Fun’ is one way of looking at it, Haruka supposes. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Makoto smiling at him, and feels the corners of his mouth twitch treacherously in response.

He quickly covers his mouth with one hand. “Enough talking,” he says, loudly, interrupting them. “Let’s practice.”

“Exactly what I was going to say, Haruka-senpai,” says Rei, putting his hands firmly back on his keyboard. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t _bad_ for our very first time playing together, but I think we can most certainly do better than that.”

“I thought you said it gave you chills?”

“Oh, be quiet, Nagisa-kun.”

Haruka turns back to the microphone, literally putting their bickering behind him. With the guitar in his hands, the mic in front of him and his friends behind him—for now, this is all he needs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking suggestions for the name of their band, please lend me your strength!
> 
> Really, I just need ideas. I'd like to write something sad next, to take a break from the slow burning. Send me something good and I'll probably write it.


	3. i want a little more

 

 

“Is that it?”

For what feels like the dozenth time that afternoon, Haruka dubiously holds up the poster that Sasabe had given them. Unsurprisingly, it has not changed since the last time they looked at it about five minutes ago, a few blocks down the street.

The photograph splashed across it depicts the same young man with red hair on a stage, wailing away at his guitar, under spotlights so blinding that the lens flares they cause obscure the details of his face. Meanwhile, in neon green letters that have been helpfully printed several inches high, the headline reads: _AMATEUR HOUR at FUTURE FISH — FRIDAYS 5-7PM_. This is followed by the subtitle: _BYOI (keyboards and drums provided)_.

Haruka doesn’t have the faintest idea what that’s supposed to mean, but he assumes they are about to find out. As one, they turn from the poster to look at the unlit sign over the door on the street corner. There is the cartoon likeness of a fish etched upon it, and also the words _FUTURE FISH_ in English letters, for whatever that’s worth. It’s good enough for Haruka, at least, who rolls up the poster and puts it back into his bag.

“That’s got to be it, guys, I mean—how many Future Fishes can there be in one city?” For some reason, Nagisa is whispering, which is quite unnerving. The trip to Tottori had involved riding both a bus _and_ a train, and Nagisa had been beside himself with excitement the whole way—Haruka can’t remember a single moment from that afternoon when Nagisa had spoken at a volume below ‘squeal’.

But then he looks back to the entrance of this ‘Future Fish’, and thinks he kinda gets it. In addition to the helpful sign, there is another red-haired young man leaning up against the wall by the door, arms crossed over his chest. (Haruka doesn’t know what to make of the sudden influx of redheads—side-effect of entering the rock scene, perhaps.) He’s tall with quite an intimidating air around him, though he does make a bit of an effort to smile when he spots them loitering halfway across the street, dithering about what to do.

“What is that supposed to _mean_ , anyway? ‘Future Fish’?” Perhaps following Nagisa’s cue, Rei is also whispering, which gives the whole affair a slightly illicit feel. (Haruka kind of wishes they would stop.)

“Erm...” Makoto taps his chin with a fingertip, drawing upon what little English ability he possesses. “‘Fish from the future’, I guess?”

“ _Yes_ , but what does that—”

“Hey, hey, Haru-chan— _sorry_ , Rei-chan, don’t look at me like that, we can talk about what it means later!—anyway, Haru-chan, you’re our leader, you go talk to him!”

Nagisa gives him a ‘helpful’ shove in the small of his back, sending him stumbling a step or two down the sidewalk. Once he’s recovered his balance, Haruka turns back to frown at him.

“I am not our... _your_ leader. I’m not anyone’s leader.”

“Sure you are!” Nagisa nudges Rei with his elbow. “Tell him, Rei-chan!”

Somewhat flustered to be tagged in, Rei takes a moment to push his glasses up his nose, composing himself before he speaks.

“I’m afraid I must agree with Nagisa-kun, Haruka-senpai—some have greatness thrust upon them. There may not have been a vote, but you are certainly the face of our band.”

“But I—”

“Haru.”

Putting whatever he was going to say on hold, Haruka turns, and looks up. Makoto is giving him that particular sheepish smile—the one where his eyes crinkle and his eyebrows slant downwards, the one that never fails to make him feel guilty. _Damn it_.

“Just ask him if we can go in. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Why don’t _you_ do it,” Haruka mutters. But with the three of them looking at him like _that_ , he goes. Easier to just get it over with than to spend any more time arguing about it.

He looks both ways, not that there’s much traffic to worry about, then crosses the street. The guy looks up as he approaches, and gives a bit of a wave.

“Here for Amateur Hour, huh? You guys high schoolers?”

Haruka nods. For reasons that are probably obvious, he greatly prefers yes or no questions to any other kind.

The guy smiles, all teeth. “Great. You won’t be needing one of these, then.” There’s a cardboard box sitting on the floor next to his foot; he gives the side of the box a gentle tap with his sneaker.

Haruka looks down. The box by their feet is full of neon blue tear-away wristbands. He looks back up, and something in his expression must be shaped like a question, because the guy laughs.

“You get one if you’re old enough to drink, it lets you into the bar area. Not that it gets that much business right now.” He jerks his chin over at Nagisa, Rei, and Makoto, who are still watching cautiously from across the street (Nagisa is trying to conceal himself behind a postbox, and doing quite a poor job of it). “Your friends coming, too?”

Haruka nods one more time, and then turns and waves, in the universal signal for _It’s okay, he doesn’t bite_. Nagisa immediately pops out from behind the postbox, and one by one, they troop over to join him, Makoto in the lead and Rei bringing up the rear.

The bouncer nods at each of them in turn, but when he gets to Rei he thrusts out an arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Hold on.” He looks a little apologetic, but he’s completely firm. “You can’t come in here wearing that.”

Rei blinks, looking down at himself. Unlike the other three, he’s still in his school uniform: neatly pressed shirt and slacks, plus the school tie, perfectly knotted.

“Oh! I’d forgotten... I came from club practice, so I didn’t have time to change...” He raises his head with a hopeful smile. “I don’t suppose you could make an exception—? No... thought not. Well...” He turns to look at the other three, despondent. “I suppose I could just... wait outside, until you’re done?”

“Ehhhhh? Rei-chan can’t come in with us? But I don’t want you to wait outside! We all have to go in together or there’s no _point_!”

Before Haruka has time to add his opinion to the mix, Makoto apparently alights on a solution. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over to land lightly across Rei’s shoulders.

“There. Put that on,” he says, with a smile. “Would it be okay if he keeps it on the whole time?”

This last question is directed at the bouncer, who squints at Rei like he’s having trouble making up his mind. (Any decision he’s struggling with is probably made no easier by having three sets of puppy-dog eyes pointed at him.) Finally, he throws up his hands and sighs.

“Well... okay, then, I’ll allow it. But!” He snaps, which halts Nagisa right in the middle of leaping for joy, “You really can’t take it off, or it’s me who will get in trouble, got it? I’m serious about this.”

“Yes, understood!” Rei smiles from ear to ear, and reluctantly, the bouncer smiles a little back. “I shall wear this like my life depends on it!”

He pulls the jacket on properly, and zips it up. It looks at least a size too big, if not two; the tips of Rei’s fingers are barely visible at the end of the sleeves, and the shoulder seams look like they’re practically halfway down his arms.

Haruka ignores the weird sick feeling that emerges in his stomach, as he looks at Rei wearing the jacket. It’s probably just because he’s used to seeing it on Makoto, and not... like _this_. (Whatever ‘this’ means.) He also ignores the persistent little voice in his head that says that that’s _his_ jacket to wear, because that’s not even factually true and makes absolutely no sense. Makoto has owned that jacket for years and it wouldn’t even fit him, so there’s no reason for him to feel bad.

But he does, so much that he can hardly stand it. The pounding of his heart is suddenly loud in his ears; it feels like it’s trying to crawl up into his throat. To save himself from dwelling any longer on the weird bad queasiness, he nods one last thank you to the bouncer and then walks past, quickly, pulling the door open to slip inside the club. He’s pleasantly surprised by the quality of that whole interaction; he has somehow managed to get through that entire encounter without having to speak once, and really, wouldn’t things be so much more pleasant if he could just do that for the rest of his life?

The entrance hallway is dimly lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, and it’s lined on both sides with faded posters for various concerts, both past and future, with smaller corridors leading off to either side marked by restroom signs. There’s a guy over by the wall near a corner who’s having a smoke; he nods at Haruka when they make eye contact, and then looks away again. While he’s waiting for the others to catch up, Haruka considers the sad little lightbulb, which seems to be vibrate in the air every now and then, as though moved around by an invisible force. It’s a bit cheap-looking, but Haruka wonders if that’s intentional—it does give the place a bit of an interesting industrial feel.

There’s another set of double doors at the end of the hall, probably as a sort of noise precaution. The distant thrumming he’d heard from outside, like the sound of heavy machinery, is closer now, and Haruka belatedly realizes it is the low rumble of bass emanating through the foundations of the building itself. As he approaches them, the midrange and trebles creep in, along with the warble of a voice—it’s the sound of a band jamming, and loudly, at that.

The front door at the far end of the hall swings open again, and he hears footsteps.

“Haru, wait up!”

It’s Makoto, who arrives at a jog, followed by the other two.

“I _was_ waiting,” Haruka points out—quite reasonably, in his opinion, but this response only earns him a chagrined smile.

Nagisa, who is holding on to Rei’s very-loose jacket sleeve with one hand, points at the double doors with the other. (The grip he has on Rei is perhaps more necessary than friendly; Rei has spotted the guy smoking and looks rather like he’s going to faint.)

“Onwards, brave leader Haru-chan!” he cries. “Show us the way!”

Haruka sighs. Catching his eye, Makoto grins at him.

“Go on, then, brave leader,” he says, in a murmur that’s barely loud enough to reach Haruka’s ears; Haruka gives him an annoyed look.

“Don’t start.”

Without hesitation, he steps forward, and shoves the enormous doors open. The sudden blast of music hits them like a physical blow; Haruka actually takes a small step backwards from the shock of it. Dimly he registers that Nagisa is saying something, or at least trying to, but the shape of his words are entirely lost in the barrage of sound. He takes one step forward and then another, as his eyes and ears adjust, beginning to look tentatively around the new space they’ve found themselves in.

He can’t say much for the aesthetic; the place seems to be modeled more or less after an abandoned warehouse, with bare concrete floors, a cavernous raised ceiling, and not much else in terms of notable features. Nevertheless, it must be popular as there’s people everywhere—sparser near the exit where it’s almost quiet enough to hold a conversation, but crammed together in a huge writhing, seething mass up near the stage. The walls, at least, look to be soundproofed, although Haruka’s not sure that that really counts as decoration.

The place is lit sporadically by spotlights, except for the bar on the left, which is more well-lit but also cordoned off, with a bouncer at the entrance. At the far end of the room, just barely visible over all the heads, is a raised stage with several speakers suspended from the ceiling around it, upon which a band is playing.

Said band, Haruka has astutely determined, is the source of all the racket. At the moment, they’re muddling their way through an X Japan cover, which—well, if he’s being honest, isn’t much good.

_Amateur Hour indeed_ , Haruka thinks, pushing forward to join the throng of people with his hands pressed over his ears. After what feels like an eternity, the song finally tapers off. The crowd cheers with an appropriate amount of enthusiasm, and in the relative peace that ensues, Haruka can finally let go of the sides of his head.

“That was... something,” Makoto murmurs, from somewhere to his left. Haruka rather agrees, although he does not give voice to this opinion. He looks to his right, where Nagisa and Rei are standing. Judging by the sheer joy on Nagisa’s face, you’d have thought he’d won the lottery.

“That could be us, guys!” (Despite Nagisa’s apparent excitement, Haruka notices he still has an iron grip on Rei’s sleeve.) “Wait, no—that’s _gonna_ be us! ‘cause we’re gonna play here!”

“I—well—a-are we?”

For the first time that Haruka has noticed since they started this whole band thing together, Rei looks like he is reconsidering the wisdom of some of his past choices. (Haruka isn’t offended, though; the only thing that surprises him is how long it took for this to happen.) He watches as Rei twists his hands together, brow knotted, and stammers, “I... I don’t know, Nagisa-kun, there’s a lot of people here, and we’ve only... I mean, I’m not sure if we... if _I_...”

“We can do it.”

Haruka doesn’t know what possesses him to speak, and the surprised look that Makoto gives him is a mirror for his own feelings. But it _feels_ like the right thing to say, and besides, he can’t just take it back, so he may as well stand by it.

He takes a deep breath, and keeps his eyes fixed on the stage in the distance. “Believe in us, Rei. There’s nothing stopping us.”

It’s so cheesy that he is instantly consumed with embarrassment, and it takes a moment or two before he can look at Rei. When at last his gaze slides unwillingly back in Rei’s direction, Rei is wearing an expression that recalls to mind the look he’d had on the day they’d played together for the first time—it’s a look of sheer wonder.

“Haruka-senpai...” Rei swallows, and then, slowly, brightens. “You’re right. With the four of us—if it’s us—we can go as far as we want. I’m sure of it!”

Beaming like a little ray of sunshine, Nagisa forcefully links arms with the two of them. Then he fixes Makoto with a _look_ until he laughs, too, and reaches up to tuck his hand underneath Haruka’s upper arm, near the breastbone, holding him there lightly. (The press of his fingertips is delicate, but Haruka finds himself fixating on the touch.)

Up on the stage, the previous band has just about finished tearing down, and the next one is setting up. Tearing his attention away from the feel of Makoto’s hand on him, Haruka blinks over all the heads in front of them. His gaze comes to rest on the new guy who’s standing in the middle of the stage, busy plugging in his guitar. He looks oddly familiar, and Haruka’s just about to say something when Nagisa beats him to it—letting go of Rei for a moment to point, as though they weren’t all already looking in the same direction.

“Hey, isn’t that the guy from the poster? The one with red hair!”

Said guy turns, laughing, to say something inaudible to his bandmate—a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a mess of dark hair. Squinting against the lights, Haruka can’t quite be sure, but he thinks the guy’s holding a guitar, too. Interesting.

Off to the side, there’s a smaller, light-haired guy holding a bass that almost looks too big for him. As for the drummer—Haruka mentally apologizes to all the drummers of the world, but the stage doesn’t have a drum riser, so he’s basically invisible way off in the back. Oh well.

“I guess he’s the literal poster child, huh?” Makoto chuckles. “They’ll probably be better than the last group, then.”

“One can only hope,” says Rei, in a pained voice.

In the next moment, a ragged cheer runs through the crowd. The band has apparently finished their sound check, and the frontman has seized the mic.

“Hey, everyone,” he says, with a little wave. “You all know us, so... uh... no introduction needed, I guess?”

Another cheer, clapping, and some scattered laughter. The guy flashes the crowd a toothy grin, and glances at his bandmates. “Yeah, sounds about right. So, you guys in the mood for some ONE OK ROCK?”

The crowd’s reception is positive, to say the least; there’s yet another cheer, and Haruka gets jostled slightly by strangers around him who have about as much restraint as Nagisa. But the guy on stage isn’t over-eager; he holds up a hand for silence, waiting patiently until the crowd quietens down again, and only then, when he lowers his hand, do the drums start.

Haruka tunes out Nagisa’s murmured _‘oh’_ of surprise next to him, focusing his entire attention on the beat. It’s perfectly crisp—no stumbling or fumbling, the snap of the hi-hat and crack of the snare so pristine that it almost makes the hairs on his arms stand on end. The bass rolls in after that, low and steady, followed by the second guitar—not with chords so much as fuzzy industrial sounds, for texture.

And all the while, the guy with the mic stands under the spotlight, so still that he could have been carved out of wood, waiting for his moment—

Then he starts to sing, and his voice rings out clear, slicing through the rawness of the music like a single light in the darkness. The sound is unearthly; it swells up around them like a wave, until Haruka feels like he’s drowning in it. Maybe, he thinks, slightly dazed, maybe it’s because of the dozens of other voices in the crowd, everyone who knows the words singing along. Or maybe...

“ _I want a little more..._  
_But inside it seems,_ _  
_ I’m just a little boy, nothing else.”

Time seems to stand still. The singer shreds his way to the chorus, with backing vocals supplied by the bassist, and all around them the crowd is losing it. Everything is bodies in motion, flashing lights and heavy sound; Haruka feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe. It seems to go on forever, and yet it’s over too soon—when the song comes crashing to an end and the crowd starts to cheer once more, Haruka blinks like he’s waking up from a long dream. As he regains control of his senses piece by piece, conscious thought returning to him in stages, some part of him sends up a belated alarm. There’s pain radiating up his arm to his shoulder; Makoto is gripping his arm so tightly it feels like it’s going to bruise.

“ _Ouch_. Makoto—”

He turns to look. Makoto is staring back at him—which is strange, Haruka thinks, because why wasn’t he looking at the stage?—and there’s something odd in his expression, though Haruka can’t quite pinpoint what that might be. His first, bizarre thought is that Makoto looks _afraid_ , somehow, but that doesn’t make sense, so he pushes it aside.

“Makoto?”

“O-oh! Crap, I’m so sorry, Haru, I didn’t realize—”

He lets go right away, and Haruka reaches up to gingerly massage the place where Makoto’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of his arm.

“It’s fine,” he says—barely audible over the sound of the crowd, but he figures Makoto can probably read his lips. “What’s gotten into you?”

Makoto smiles awkwardly, but says nothing—which is about what Haruka expected, but still. He frowns, making a mental note to bring it up again later; at any rate, Nagisa has started swinging him back and forth by their linked arms with sheer elation, so it’s probably not the right time to press the point.

“That was _amazing_ , you guys! That band was just... and that _singer_! Wow!”

“Nagisa-kun, you may be correct, but please stop thrashing around.” Rei sighs as he’s rocked back and forth with Nagisa’s entire body weight, although the corners of his lips twitch treacherously. “They really _were_ good, though. That guitarist... er...” He pushes his glasses up his nose again, unnecessarily. “He played like... like Haruka-senpai does.”

He looks slightly ashamed, like he’s not sure whether it’s okay for him to say it, but on Haruka’s other side, Makoto shrugs.

“It’s true.” For some reason, he sounds distant, although in the next moment he looks over at them and smiles, and Haruka thinks it must’ve been his imagination, after all. “You should’ve seen the look in Haru’s eyes. I haven’t seen him look like that since we went to the guitar show in Osaka.”

“I wanna talk to him,” Nagisa says, suddenly.

“What—right now?” Rei looks quite alarmed (and rightfully so).

“ _No_ , silly, after his set! They can’t play that many more songs, I’m sure someone else will go up to have a turn. Here, c’mon, let’s start making our way over there—”

“ _Nagisa_! We can’t just—”

Unfortunately, Nagisa is not one to be held back by mere words, and by the time the band has finished their three-song set, the four of them have somehow managed to wiggle and sidle their way through the enormous press of people (though not without treading on several of them along the way; Makoto spends most of his time apologizing instead of moving). Eventually, they emerge somewhere near the side of the stage, where a number of fans and admirers—mostly female, Haruka notes—are waiting. Their timing is convenient; waving their goodbyes to the crowd, the band exits the stage to raucous cheers, and are immediately accosted by people asking for autographs.

“Um... should we join them?” Makoto looks doubtfully at the fans brandishing sharpies, some of them squealing at a pitch that Haruka would not have thought possible for humans to reach.

“No,” Nagisa declares, deftly striking a superman pose. “I have a plan.”

Before anyone with sense can stop him, Nagisa is marching over, making a beeline for the band’s frontman. Up this close, Haruka can see that it wasn’t a trick of the lights; that grin is even sharper and toothier than it seemed before.

“Should we do something?” Rei sounds as though he is struggling to keep a panic attack at bay.

Haruka takes a moment to decide. Then he shrugs.

“Let’s just trust Nagisa.”

This decision is one that he immediately regrets, as Nagisa catches the guy’s attention by pointing directly at him and hollering at the top of his lungs, “HEY! Our guitarist challenges you to a _duel_!”

A hush falls over the nearby fans as well as the band themselves, and all eyes are on Nagisa. Then, when he turns to look back at them—at Haruka, specifically—all eyes are on Haruka, and Haruka finds himself wishing very strongly that he could just sink through the floor and vanish forever.

“Well, that was a mistake,” Makoto says, but he grins cheerfully anyway, starting forward. The frontman, as well as his tall, broad-shouldered bandmate, are both glaring at them. The bassist just looks terrified, and the last guy—yet _another_ redhead, who Haruka assumes is the drummer—looks, for reasons that are unfathomable to Haruka, absolutely delighted.

“What the hell is this?” The singer demands. (Those teeth, Haruka thinks, don’t look quite so neat when he’s mad.) “You guys trying to pick a fight or something?”

“No, no, of course not!” Makoto holds his hands up with a disarming smile, and it’s hard to understand how he works his magic, but the tension seems to ease up a little. “We were just visiting—you know, checking out other bands. It’s our first time here, and Nagisa got a little over-excited.” He gives a little self-deprecating laugh, and a shrug. “Guess he’s just dying to share the stage with a band like you guys, huh?”

The guy scrutinizes Makoto for several seconds, clearly trying to decide whether what he says has the ring of truth. Makoto, however, is long since hardened from having a pair of monstrous twin siblings, and does not flinch.

Finally, the guy breaks into another one of his wide, pointy smiles. (Makoto’s expression never wavers for a second, but Haruka notices the way his shoulders loosen up.)

“I’m Matsuoka Rin.” He thrusts out a hand, which Makoto takes, politely. “And this is my band, Bite Force.”

“‘Bite’...?”

Matsuoka preens. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s like DragonForce, but biting. ‘cause sharks are cool, ya know?”

The tall guy next to him rolls his eyes, but stays silent. He doesn’t seem quite as impressed by Makoto’s overtures, but fortunately for them it looks as though this Matsuoka guy tends to call the shots. (He must, Haruka thinks wryly, for them to have gone along with a name like _that_.)

“This is Yamazaki Sousuke,” Matsuoka continues, patting the tall guy on the shoulder and laughing as his hand gets playfully swiped away. “He plays guitar, too—keeps me on my toes. And this is Nitori Aiichirou on bass, and—”

“Mikoshiba Momotarou on the drums, at your service!” Said drummer salutes them with his sticks with a big wink; a couple of girls squeal, and he turns to grin at them sheepishly.

“Nice to meet you all,” Makoto says, with another smile. Matsuoka is looking at him expectantly, so he takes a deep breath before continuing. “Um... I’m Tachibana Makoto. I only picked up the bass recently, so I’m not amazing or anything. That’s Ryuugazaki Rei, our keyboardist... Hazuki Nagisa, he plays the drums. A-and—” For some reason, Makoto stutters for a moment, but his recovery is smooth enough that no one seems to notice, “—Nanase Haruka, singer and guitarist.”

“And?”

Makoto blinks. “And what?”

Matsuoka rolls his eyes. “And what’s your band called?”

“Uh...” Makoto casts a glance back at Haruka, who shakes his head ever so slightly. (Nagisa looks for a moment as though he is going to interject, but a glare from Haruka seems to make him decide otherwise.) “We haven’t decided yet.”

Matsuoka barks out a laugh. “So you’re that new, huh? Too bad. Looks like you didn’t bring any instruments, either—didn’t you see the poster?” He grins wide, only mildly threatening. “I was looking forward to some fresh meat.”

At this, Yamazaki speaks up for the first time. His voice is deep and slightly sardonic.

“Please excuse our friend; he missed his calling at the aquarium.”

“Hey!” Matsuoka laughs, giving Yamazaki a little punch in the arm. “Whatever, dude. Well—what kind of music do you play, at least?”

Again, Makoto looks back at Haruka, wordlessly. This time, though, an answer pops into his head, so he speaks without thinking.

“Free. We play free.”

“‘ _Free_ ’?” Matsuoka blinks. “What the heck does that mean?” He frowns a little, then takes a step forward, peering at Haruka as though seeing him for the first time. Then he grins. “Say... you’re kind of a weirdo, aren’t you?”

Behind him, Yamazaki coughs. Mikoshiba, on the other hand, is less restrained; he just laughs out loud, hands thrust casually behind his neck.

“Rin-senpai,” their bassist starts, timidly, “you shouldn’t call other people weird, it’s rude—”

“I mean, it takes one to know one,” Yamazaki mutters.

“Oh, you guys are calling _me_ weird?” Matsuoka whirls from side to side to glare at them, although he’s grinning, too. “At least I don’t order pineapple on my pizza. Now _that’s_ weird.” He turns back to Makoto and the others. “Listen, it was great meeting you guys, but we’ve gotta run. Come back some time and make sure you bring your guitars, okay? We can—” His expression sharpens, and he makes eye contact with Haruka in particular as he says this, “have that duel you wanted.”

“...Sure.”

The alien spark of excitement that Haruka feels at hearing that worries him a little. He’s never really felt the desire to play _against_ someone else before, but now that he’s seen the way that Matsuoka plays, he thinks he might like to try.

Nagisa waves them off with enthusiasm as they head off, trailed by their posse of fans, though only the drummer bothers waving back. As they disappear into the crowd Haruka hears a girl’s voice cutting through the general clamor—“ _onii-chan, you weren’t scaring them, were you?_ ” and some laughter.

Meanwhile, the next band is already setting up. Haruka doesn’t fancy being right up next to the stage when they get started, so once they’re gone, he starts moving back along the edge of the wall in the direction of the exit, with the others trailing in his wake.

“He has very sharp teeth,” Rei says, once they’ve moved far back enough that they can actually hear each other over the music. He sounds doubtful, as though he thinks the pointiness of his bite might have some negative bearing on his character.

“Rin-chan, you mean?” Nagisa beams, trotting along beside him and still holding on to his too-loose sleeve. “He seems nice!”

Haruka tries to imagine the expression that Matsuoka might make if he heard Nagisa calling him ‘Rin-chan’. It almost makes him smile, and Nagisa gives him a curious look.

“ _Nice?_ ” Rei appears to choke slightly on the word. “Nagisa-kun, it may be time for you to schedule an appointment with your optometrist. You seem to—”

“Oh, come on, Rei-chan, you’re so dramatic. He didn’t bite! And he wants to play with Haru-chan, that’s a good thing no matter how you look at it! Right, Mako-chan?” When there is no response, he peers closer at Makoto. “Earth to Mako-chan? Helloooo?”

“Huh?” Makoto shakes his head a little like he’s trying to clear it, and then smiles—but in a kind of automatic way, like he’s distracted by something. “Oh, yeah... of course.”

Ever so slightly, Haruka frowns. “What’s wrong?” he asks, again.

Unfortunately, he is rebuffed once more. “Never mind me, Haru—how’s your arm? Did I hurt you?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Haruka mutters. He’s annoyed because if he admits that it _did_ hurt, they’ll never get off the topic of Makoto’s guilt, and that’s not what he wants to talk about.

“I’m not, I’m really asking...”

Makoto smiles at him; his face is an open book, nothing but honest concern, and it frustrates Haruka to no end. But he can’t get into it right now—not in the middle of the club with all these people around them, with Nagisa and Rei looking on curiously. Haruka feels his jaw tighten, and has to consciously will himself to relax. “—fine,” he says, quietly. “We’ll talk about it later, then.”

“Ohh, that reminds me!” Nagisa, perhaps sensing an awkward moment, cuts in between them smoothly with a grin. “It’s Friday! And you know what that means, right?”

“Er... no?” Rei looks at the other two, who shrug.

“It _means_ ,” says Nagisa—slowly and deliberately, as though they will not understand otherwise—“that we should have a sleepover at Haru-chan’s, so we can brainstorm ideas for our band name!”

“Nobody told _me_ about this,” Haruka mutters.

“Whatever could you mean, Haru-chan?” Nagisa chuckles, shaking his head patronizingly. “I’m telling you right now, aren’t I?” He seizes Makoto and Rei by the arms, tugging them back and forth where they’re linked. “C’monnn, you guys can stay over, right? Right, right? Right!”

“Hey, don’t just invite people to my house—”

“C’mon, Haru,” says Makoto, with a small grin— _at least one of us is enjoying ourselves_ , Haruka thinks, miffed. “It’ll be our first sleepover together as a band. I think it’ll be fun.”

“I guess I could ask my parents...” Rei says, uncertainly.

“Then it’s settled!” Nagisa crows, who is clearly having the time of his life. “Okay, here’s the plan. Rei-chan and me— _yes_ , you, Rei-chan, who else would I be talking about?—we’re going to stop by the music store here in the city, because I wanna look at some brush drumsticks! You guys can head back first and then we’ll come over for dinner, okay?” He beams. “We can get pizza! _With pineapple!_ ”

“Like I said, don’t just—”

“That sounds like a great plan, Nagisa,” Makoto says, ignoring the dirty look that Haruka gives him as they follow Nagisa back out of the club. It’s quite pleasant to be out in the fresh air again; Haruka gulps down a few big smoke-free breaths, pointedly paying no attention to the exchange of Makoto’s jacket. They say their goodbyes, and wave Nagisa and Rei off down the street.

Makoto watches them go with a look like a concerned mother hen, his expression only softening once they’re out of sight. Then he turns to look at Haruka.

“Well.” There’s something slightly off about the way he smiles; Haruka looks away. “Shall we?”

Wearing a slight frown, Haruka follows him back through the streets, in the direction of the train station. It’s not that far away, but the walk feels long; every footstep feels further than the one before it, and Haruka has to consciously stop himself from moving with an awkward gait, measuring each of his steps by the length of the silence between them.

They wait for the train together, then board it, and still Makoto is quiet. Haruka sits by him, swaying gently with the movements of the train, neither of them saying a word, and wonders what he can do. Makoto is... not quite right, that much is obvious, but apart from that it’s a complete mystery. He watches Makoto out of the corner of his eye, trying to tamp down on his frustration. It feels like there’s a wall between them, and the sensation that Makoto isn’t _with_ him, even though they’re there, together, makes something in his chest tighten unpleasantly.

At length, he manages to locate his voice. “Makoto...?”

Makoto doesn’t look up. “Hm?”

“Makoto, seriously... what’s wrong? And don’t say nothing,” he adds quickly when Makoto opens his mouth, which makes him shut it again, looking abashed. It’s hard to speak when Makoto looks like _that_ ; he pinches himself lightly near the knee, trying to use the jolt of pain to spur himself on.“I can’t understand if you don’t tell me. Do you...” The thought, as it occurs to him, makes him falter; he blinks away the sudden, hot stinging at the corners of his eyes, and presses on, “Do you... not want to play together?”

“What?” Makoto looks positively alarmed. “N-no, of course I do! It’s not that... it’s nothing like that.” His hands are folded neatly in his lap, one on top of the other; he stares down at them, seemingly lost in thought. After a few moments, he smiles, but his eyes remain downcast. “I think... you’ll be incredible up there, Haru. No—I _know_ you will be.”

Haruka frowns.

“You mean _we’ll_ be up there... right?” He’s squeezing his own knee with such force now that his knuckles have gone white. His chest hurts; every breath he takes doesn’t seem to have quite enough oxygen in it. “Because you’ll all be with me. _You’ll_ be with me, Makoto.” He thinks of adding _won’t you?_ but finds that he’s afraid to—he doesn’t want to ask, nor find out what the answer is. His mouth is dry; his tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth. He doesn’t know what or why this is, why this wall has come between them and why Makoto won’t look him in the eye.

“Haru...”

Haruka jumps as a hand lands over his, slowly prising his fingers off his knee. He stares down in shock, but Makoto doesn’t let go; just slides his fingers between Haruka’s, holding it there. When Haruka looks up at him in wonder, he sees that Makoto is smiling just a little.

“...yeah. You’re right, Haru. I’m sorry, I just...” He sighs; runs his free hand back through his hair, and looks up at the ceiling of the train. “I’m being dumb, aren’t I? No, don’t answer that.”

The corners of Haruka’s mouth hardly move, but Makoto notices anyway, and chuckles. He turns his eyes back to the ceiling, and adds, in a quiet voice, “I’m really glad you’re with me, Haru.”

Something in the way he says it, so casually, so freely, makes Haruka’s breath catch in his throat. He doesn’t understand how Makoto has always been able to say things like that, as easy as breathing; it makes him feel graceless, completely inept. He shuts his eyes, focusing on his breathing and willing it to stay steady.

Makoto’s palm is broad and warm against the back of his hand, and he’s not letting go. That’s all Haruka needs.

*

Haruka is incredibly glad when they finally arrive at home; somehow, it feels like it’s been a very long day. As he always does, Makoto stops by his own house to get some stuff and say hi to his family, so Haruka just hops into the bath as soon as he can.

It’s quiet in the bathroom, in his big empty house; nothing but the occasional sound of water dripping from the tap and his own breathing for company. He sits in the tub, knees drawn to his chest, and lets his mind wander.

His thoughts are fragmented, with memories popping up at random, some of them little more than brief flashes of images—Rei in the too-big jacket; Matsuoka singing his heart out on stage; the fearful look on Makoto’s face as he crushed Haruka’s arm...

He holds his breath and slides further down into the tub, disappearing under the water with a whoosh of breath, then stares up at the distorted image of the ceiling from beneath the surface of the water. Bubbles of air from his nose float upwards, causing ripples that obscure his view. At times like these, he finds himself wishing he could play underwater without electrocuting himself; he could really use the distraction.

It’s too easy to lose track of time in the bath, so he couldn’t say how long he actually stays. All he knows is that by the time he goes to drain the water, it’s tepid, all the heat has already gone out of it. His fingertips are puffy, pruney from the long soak, and he’s shivering a little all over.

He dries off, making sure to scrub his hair as dry as possible, and pulls on a pair of comfy athletic shorts. Then he looks consideringly at the T-shirt he’d brought into the bathroom. Part of him just wants to put it on—it’s cool out tonight, and even if he didn’t need one now, he’ll want to be wearing one later when Rei and Nagisa arrive.

But another part of him—maybe the infinitesimally small, deeply-buried part of him that looks at Makoto and very much likes what he sees—seems to have other ideas. So he leaves the shirt where it is, and heads outside, shutting the door behind him.

As he’d expected, Makoto is already seated cross-legged on the floor in the living room, channel-surfing idly. Judging by his fluffy, half-dry hair and the fact that he’s got his glasses on, he already showered and changed at home. He looks up as Haruka walks in, and then immediately looks away again, a blush spreading down his neck.

“Haru,” he says, in a slightly strangled voice, “you’re doing it again.”

Haruka resists the strange, giddy urge to smile, or do anything else that might Makoto think he’s coming down with a fever. Keeping his expression carefully blank, he comes over to sit down near Makoto on the tatami—not quite next to him, but within arm’s reach.

“It’s my house,” he points out. “I can walk around in it without a shirt if I want to.”

Makoto does not answer immediately; his gaze is fixed on an apparently fascinating point on the ceiling. He seems to take a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, not letting his gaze wander for a moment. “...I guess that’s true, but... Nagisa messaged me a little while ago. He said they’ll be over pretty soon, so you might want to finish getting dressed...”

Mildly offended by Makoto’s refusal to look at him, Haruka frowns. He isn’t freezing just so Makoto can ignore him; if he’d known it was going to go like this, he would’ve just put on the shirt. And then, all of a sudden, a shining moment of clarity blesses him with the idea to end all ideas.

“Give me your shirt.”

“Er— _what?_ ” That, at least, gets Makoto to look at him, although the only thing this accomplishes is making him blush harder. “Haru, I don’t... um...”

Haruka doesn’t bother repeating himself; just holds out a hand, palm up and open. The gesture is about as clear as he can make it.

Makoto stares at the hand, and then at him, and gulps down a nervous breath.

“B-but Haru...”

Haruka glares, hand still outstretched. The look on his face says, quite clearly, _No buts_. As it is quite impossible to argue with someone who won’t even open their mouth to speak, Makoto finds himself at an impasse, and at this point seems to decide it’s not worth the effort. Red all the way to the backs of his ears and down his neck, he shrugs off his T-shirt, balling it up nervously, then drops it into Haruka’s open palm, all the while refusing to make eye contact.

Haruka has to unroll it before he pulls it on, but it’s big enough that it basically just falls over him in one tug, and all he has to do is stick his arms and head out through the holes. Annoyingly, it falls all the way to his hips to pile up on the floor, and the neck hole stretches almost off one of his shoulders—up until this exact moment, he hadn’t fully fathomed the difference in size between them. It’s slightly galling.

The fabric is still faintly warm from the heat of Makoto’s body. Without thinking, he reaches up and presses the cloth against his solar plexus with splayed fingers, like he’s trying to keep the warmth there.

Then he looks up.

“There,” he says, simply. “I’m dressed.”

The first thing he notices about Makoto is that—well, he’s shirtless now, obviously, and the view is quite pleasant indeed.

The second thing he notices is that Makoto is watching him like a hawk. Without clothes in the way, he can see the tension rippling across Makoto’s broad shoulders, like a coiled spring, wound up tight. He breathes in a staccato rhythm, short and sharp, and his eyes are dark and a little narrowed.

“Haru... are you doing this on purpose?”

His voice is soft, but strained, and as Haruka watches he makes fists against the ground, then relaxes his fingers, only to repeat the process once more; curling and uncurling reflexively against the tatami.

(It suddenly occurs to Haruka that he might like to feel those fingers curling around him—)

“I’m not doing anything,” he says—but his voice trembles slightly, giving the lie to his words. Makoto makes another strangled noise, shutting his eyes.

The next time he opens them, Haruka is there.

Haruka reaches out. His hands seem to take a very long time to cross the space between them; the air feels thick, like he’s moving through sand. The first touch of Makoto’s skin, his palms cupping Makoto’s face, is electric, and Makoto lets out a soft hiss of breath like he’s been burned. Haruka slides his hands back further, threading fingers through Makoto’s hair to the back of his head, then sliding down to his neck. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion; he finds himself falling back onto the tatami, and only avoids taking a bump to the head because Makoto’s hand is there to protect it, cupping it gently from the back.

Blinking, Haruka looks up. Makoto is situated over him, on all fours. Unusually, he isn’t smiling. He leans closer, and their noses brush. The pounding of Haruka’s heart is unnaturally loud and fast, and for a crazy moment he thinks that maybe Makoto can hear it; can hear the evidence of what he’s doing to Haruka.

“Mako—?”

The last syllable of Makoto’s name is swallowed up by a kiss. Fingertips creep under the hem of the shirt he’s just put on, and Haruka gasps as a palm is pressed flat against his belly, resting there for a moment before trailing upwards and pulling the shirt with it. The parting of his lips provides Makoto with an opportunity; he licks his tongue into Haruka’s mouth, soft and oh so _wet_ , and without thinking Haruka’s hips buck wildly.

Makoto responds to this with a groan, _pressing_ down into him, and the sensation of their groins coming together makes Haruka’s vision white out for a moment with a shock of pleasure. His head is spinning; his hands scrabble along Makoto’s bare back for purchase, eventually coming to rest at the jut of his hips, clinging on for dear life. Makoto kisses him and rocks into him, all sweet friction and heat, gentle swipes of his tongue on the inside of Haruka’s mouth and he feels like he’s losing his mind; the night air is cool on his skin, but he’s burning up inside. His lungs are starting to hurt, though, and when the pain starts to pierce he drags his face away forcefully, turning his head aside with his cheek coming to rest against the floor.

“Wait,” he says, breathing heavily, “wait—”

Makoto lets out all his breath in a wheeze, collapsing over Haruka, though he tries to keep some of his weight off of him with trembling hands. He’s panting too as he nuzzles along the side of Haruka’s neck, and Haruka flinches when he presses the flat of his tongue there, licking up the salt of his skin before finishing off with a soft kiss.

“Sorry, Haru,” he murmurs, lips still pressed to skin. “I—”

“Stop apologizing,” Haruka mutters. “I just needed air. I don’t—it’s not like I _wanted_ to stop.”

At that, Makoto pulls his face up and away from Haruka’s neck to stare at him, but Haruka never finds out what he might have said. A moment later, the doorbell starts to ring as someone presses it multiple times with enthusiasm, and both of them jump.

“Haru-chan? Mako-chan? Are you back yet?” At times like this, Haruka has to admit that Nagisa’s ability to project really impresses. There’s another muffled voice that is probably Rei, but he doesn’t have a set of lungs on him like Nagisa, so they can’t quite make out the words.

“They’re here,” Makoto mutters, going to raise himself up off Haruka. “We should probably—”

Haruka isn’t really thinking when he throws his arms around Makoto’s neck and drags him back down, crushing their mouths together and swallowing Makoto’s startled gasp whole. He would’ve liked to say that it was planned, that he has _some_ idea what he’s doing, but there’s no rhyme or reason to it; he just wants, _needs_ more... and Makoto is there. With their bodies together again, Haruka can feel him through his clothes; he’s hard, the shape of it pressing into Haruka’s thigh, and it’s _still_ not enough.

He pulls back to give Makoto a hard look, and mutters, “I want to touch you.” The expression on Makoto’s face is one part panic, three parts turned on, but he doesn’t do anything stop Haruka as he runs his hand down along Makoto’s back, slipping deftly beneath the hem of his pants and further down to cup his ass. When he squeezes, Makoto _groans_ so loud it echoes through the room obscenely—the ringing of the doorbell comes to an abrupt halt, and a few seconds later, the sound of the door sliding open echoes down the hallway.

“Haru-chan? We’re coming in, okay? Sorry to disturb!”

This time, there’s no stopping Makoto from getting off of him, and approximately eight seconds later, when Nagisa and Rei slide the door to the living room open and enter, they find Makoto and Haruka sitting on opposite sides of the room, carefully not looking at each other.

Makoto is wearing his shirt inside out and backwards, and Haruka’s hair is sticking up in a lovely cowlick in the back.

“Oh, so you _are_ home!” With hands on hips, Nagisa peers between the two of them, while Rei looks over his shoulder, blinking. “I thought I heard something!”

“Why didn’t you come get us?” asks Rei.

Makoto is just opening and closing his mouth like a concussed goldfish, so Haruka takes it upon himself to answer.

“Doorbell’s broken,” he grunts. “Sorry.”

“But I could’ve sworn we heard it from outside...” Rei gives Nagisa a curious look. Nagisa has not said anything or moved for several seconds; he is merely looking at them, and there is something thoughtful in his expression. Finally, he breaks into a grin, and Haruka gets a sinking feeling in his stomach, because there’s no way _that’s_ good news.

“Now, now, Rei-chan, does it really matter why? What _matters_ ,” he says, throwing an arm around Rei’s neck, “is that we’re all together now!” He tosses his overnight bag onto the floor and then lets go of Rei to fling himself onto Makoto, nearly flattening him. “Let’s order the pizza! Also, you should put on a shirt, Haru-chan, you’re going to catch a cold.”

He winks over his shoulder while Makoto sputters under him, and Haruka, grateful for the opportunity, leaves to go get his shirt before Rei can ask any more pointed questions.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your listening pleasure: [ONE OK ROCK's Mighty Long Fall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UjZqcDYbvAE).
> 
> It took a little while to decide what kind of song Rin would sing; hope I made a good choice.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://andreaphobia.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/andreaphobia).


End file.
